


Medication for Sorrow

by finnemoreshusband



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Self-Harm, but not in the usual way...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 33,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnemoreshusband/pseuds/finnemoreshusband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's return is decidedly un-dramatic.  But of course Sherlock comes home a changed man.  Gripped by a heavy depression and marked with a number of cold scars, even in London he is lost.</p><p>ABANDONED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Been A Week, Why Haven't You Come Back?

John Watson stared at the door. He checked the small piece of thin, delicate paper Mycroft had handed him again, even though he knew he was at the right address. He'd double checked it ten times by now. He just wasn't sure what to do now that he was here.

He'd seen Sherlock's ghost last week. But as it turned out, it wasn't his ghost, but the man himself. Alive and breathing in the doorway of 221B.

He really hadn't _meant_ to punch him. Not hard enough to knock him down. And he definitely didn't expect him to stay down. When Sherlock had stood, he didn't look at John. Instead he'd kept his eyes fixed on the wall behind him. He'd opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself just before John shouted at him to leave. So he'd left.

And for a week John wasn't sure why he'd said that. Yes, he was angry at Sherlock, but all he'd been hoping, wishing, _praying_ for was that he would come back. What bothered him more was that Sherlock had obeyed the command without protest, taking it a few steps further by not coming back.

Because John _had_ waited. Of course he waited. After sending Sherlock away he could only assume he would return for a second try. Couldn't say he wasn't looking forward to it. No use lying to oneself. Only, when the person knocking on the door proved to be the other Holmes brother, he was left even more confused.

So here he was, outside the flat Sherlock had been put up in since his return. What was he doing here? He'd expected Sherlock to attempt rekindling their friendship (in a very Sherlocky way, of course). He'd been prepared for that.

He knocked. Nothing happened. So he put his ear against the door and, hearing shuffling inside, knocked again, louder now. Then the noise stopped. He guessed Sherlock was deciding if it was worth opening the door, depending on who was on the other side.

Then the latch clicked, and the door swung open only an inch, and the shuffling resumed. John's brow furrowed. He knocked a third time before pushing the door open all the way. "Sherlock?"

He pushed the door open and looked around the apartment. It definitely didn't look like he'd only lived there a week. Sherlock, dressed unusually in a plain white tee and a pair of blue jeans, appeared busy rearranging things. Packing some into boxes, others into luggage. "Sherlock," he said again. But the man didn't stop, didn't turn to look at him. "It's been a week, why haven't you come back?"

Sherlock didn't even pause. He simply swished across the room, opening a filing cabinet and pulling out a bunch of dully colored folders. He looked through each one, sorting them into three piles on the floor. The tallest of the three were thrown into a metal waste bin and then Sherlock pulled something out of his pocket. A packet of matches, one of which he lit and threw into the bin, lighting the files aflame before he placed one of the remaining piles in a suitcase and the other in a small messenger bag sat on a wooden chair.

"Sherlock, Jesus, you can't start a fire like that in here," John scolded. Again there was no response. So he quickly looked around to find the kitchen. He filled a jar with water and rushed back to put the fire out. He thought that would get some kind of response out of him. He was wrong.

"I don't understand, are you ignoring me?" he asked Sherlock. "You must know I'm here, you opened the door for me. So why are you ignoring me?"

Still nothing. One of the luggage bags was now full, so Sherlock zipped it and stood it up, wheeling it over to store it next to the door.

"Are you going somewhere?" He'd just gotten back. Where would he be going? How could he even think of leaving again? Or was he simply moving into another flat? With Mycroft? With John?

A box was folded closed and placed next to the luggage, then a smaller one was placed on top.

John watched the man work. Watched how he moved. He recognised the flourish that accentuated every move, but it was different somehow. More calculated. More careful. He kept his limbs close, rarely bending or stooping unless it was necessary.

"Are you injured?" John asked, trying not to sound angry. Really he was more concerned now rather than angry. Anger could wait. They had plenty of time for that, he hoped.

"Sherlock, will you just say something? Please?"

When all the boxes and suitcases had been filled and left by the door, Sherlock surveyed the room. Most everything was gone in a matter of minutes, only larger furniture still sat out. Sherlock grabbed his coat (a beige windbreaker) from a hook on the back of the door, put it on one arm at a time, and walked out of the apartment.

John's confusion was turning into frustration, but he was trying really hard not to seem angry. He was angry, and Sherlock knew, but he wanted them to work it out. "Will you please just wait a minute?"

Sherlock didn't speak, didn't turn around, but he did pause.

John took a breath and stepped out of the flat. He approached Sherlock, but stayed behind him. He didn't want to scare him away. "Sherlock, I... Mycroft came by after you left the other day. He explained things. A bit. I know why you... why you did why you did. That doesn't mean I'm... okay with everything, but... Sherlock I don't want to lose you again. I asked for one more miracle and I can't just give it up just because I'm angry. Will you please talk to me?"

At that, Sherlock finally turned around. A few steps forward and he was, for the first time since his return, actually looking at John. He studied his face, and he saw it all. The hurt, the fear, and the anger being the most prevalent of emotions displayed there.

He raised a finger to signal for John to wait, which he did, while Sherlock went back into the apartment. He was only in there for a few seconds before he came out again and closed the door behind him, a small brown envelope in his hands. He held it against John's chest.

John glanced down at the envelope and grabbed it. When he looked up again Sherlock was walking away. He had no choice but to accept the fact that Sherlock wasn't in the mood for making up with him today.

He watched him go before exiting the building himself, the envelope tucked safely in his pocket.


	2. That Might Not Mean Much, But It Is The Truth.

_John,_

_You're probably feeling guilty about the punch. You'll act like you're not, because guilt or no guilt you still feel I deserved it, but I know you. But who am I to lecture you about telling lies?_

_I don't know how much my brother told you, he only mentioned he was going to try to explain things to you. I told him to mind his own business, but in his world everyone's business is his._

_You would probably prefer a conversation to a letter. I would as well. It's all I've been thinking about since I've been away, coming back and telling you everything. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to trick you. But if it meant keeping you alive, even at the cost of you hating me or never being able to trust me again, I'd do it again._

_Moriarty is dead. Every loose end tied up. It's over and everyone is safe from him._

_I know that doesn't mean the three of you are okay. It doesn't mean that any of you will forgive me. I know that. This apology isn't about rebuilding our relationship. It is simply an explanation._

_I have been gone just over three years. For the first two, only Molly knew I was alive. It was at this time that I incurred certain injuries that rendered me unable to continue on my own. I went to Mycroft who, aside from assisting with strategy and execution, refused to speak to me for the first few weeks. Though I'm not entirely sure if that was out of anger or courtesy._

_Many of my injuries have healed almost perfectly. There is occasionally a bit of stiffness, but it is manageable._

_There is one injury, however, from which I will never fully recover. The skin has healed and I no longer feel the pain, but the internal damage is permanent. I won't tell you about everything that happened while I was away, not in this letter. Possibly not ever, depending on what you decide to do after reading it. But, should you want to know the rest, you must first know this._

_I was captured once on my journey. I knew I would find an escape, and so did they. They also knew that most of the pain they inflicted on me would go away, the breaks and bruises would heal and I would be on the move again. So they decided to leave a mark that would never wear off. Something that would stay with me until my journey was over, until I returned to you, and until the end of my days. I will not go into detail but you must know the end result._

_I cannot speak._

_They have left me without a voice. I know that most, if not all, people who know me will be pleased._

_It was this injury that prompted me to ask Mycroft for assistance. He wasn't too happy to see me climbing through his bedroom window, but he wasn't too surprised either. With his help I was able to finish the job and come back._

_I've been back for a few months now, living in a flat not far from the one we shared. Honestly, I'd thought you would have moved. If you're wondering how you didn't see me, it's because I've rarely gone outside. It is safe to go out, but I wasn't sure how to approach you, and I didn't want you to find out from anyone other than me. I also know that, while I may be a master at the art of disguise, you would recognise me right away no matter how well I hide myself, because you look for me in everyone you see._

_I know because I do the same. I look for you in the faces of all who pass me._

_If you want to know more, I will be temporarily staying with Mycroft. You may come to me, or ask me to come to you. Or, if you'd rather not see me, I've given Mycroft permission to tell you anything and everything, and to answer any questions you have. You could also speak to Molly, although she doesn't know much about what happened while I was gone, she only knows how I survived the fall._

_John, you were the first true friend I've ever had. Or, at least the first one I recognised as a friend. I don't know a lot about how friendship works, but I am certain that I have lost your trust. Not your faith, but your trust. And I am sorry. That might not mean much, but it is the truth. Then again, that might not mean much to you either._

_Should we never meet again, I want to wish you well in your life. I am sure that you will choose better friends in the future._

_-S. H._


	3. Was This The Only One, Or The Worst Of Them All?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that I'm on some powerful pain meds right now (kidney stone, not pretty), meaning updates might be a little slow for the next week or two, but I'm gonna try to keep up.

John must have read the letter fifty times before setting it on the kitchen table, having forgotten all about the tea he'd made. The cup sat by his elbow, cold.

He put his head in his hands, taking deep breaths. Was this another trick? Was Sherlock testing him? Testing his loyalty?

Or was it the truth? Had he really been rendered mute by Moriarty's men?

And so what if he had? What did it matter to him what happened to Sherlock? Did the man even care about him? About what he'd gone through, thinking his best friend was dead? Blaming himself. Visiting the cemetery every single day until just looking at the name on the headstone became too painful. Packing all of Sherlock's belongings away, but being unable to leave the dwelling they'd shared.

It wasn't fair. Whether this was one of Sherlock's silly games or not, it wasn't fair. Sherlock had made all the decisions himself. He'd decided to jump. He'd decided to push John away so he could do it. He'd decided to trick everyone into thinking he was dead while he rid the world of everyone and everything connected to Moriarty. And now he was handing all the responsibility over to John.

Why?

Why was he all of a sudden leaving it all up to him.

Sherlock Holmes was no coward. But if this wasn't a trick, then perhaps the man was simply afraid of being rejected. Or of annoying or angering John more than he already had.

But John didn't want that to be the last time they saw each other. He didn't want new friends. He'd already have some by now if he did. He just wanted Sherlock back. He wanted to rebuild that trust, that connection they'd had. No matter how long it took.

\---

John arrived at Mycroft's home, still unsure of what he wanted to say or do. The maid who answered the door led him deep into the building, corridors like caves, dimly lit, the only difference being the carpets and framed portraits rather than dirt and ancient paintings on the walls.

They stopped in front of a large wooden door, which she opened for him before disappearing around the corner.

Even though he could still barely believe his friend was alive, he was more than a little amused at what he saw inside the room. Sherlock sat on the edge of a large bed as a doctor attempted to take his vitals. Every time the doctor tried something, Sherlock would move away, silently protesting.

John coughed to get their attention. They both looked over to him, looking confused.

"Can I help you?" the doctor asked, his voice clearly indicating annoyance.

John took a deep breath. "I'm... here to talk to Sherlock."

"Good luck," the doctor said, stepping back from his patient. "I can't get him to listen to a word I say."

"I'm sorry, but... who are you?"

"Dr. Parson, Sherlock's doctor." At Sherlock's sudden cold glare, Dr. Parson corrected himself. "I mean, I'm the doctor his brother hired to treat him. He's very particular about that. And you are?"

John turned his head a bit so Sherlock wouldn't see the smirk on his face. "Do you mind if I..."

"Go ahead." Parson's arms swept open, inviting him to do as he pleased. "Maybe you can get him to do his stretches."

With a nod and a smile John walked over to where Sherlock sat, looking down at him with an expectant face. "Tilt your head back," he requested softly.

Of course that would be the first order of business. Sherlock did as asked, exposing his neck for John to see. There were two long, intersecting scars, pinkish and raised a bit from the rest of the skin, like hills gradually worn down by years of being traveled over. Surgery could probably help it, but he doubted Sherlock would find that useful.

He ran his thumb over one of the scars, the shorter of the two. He'd seen many similar ones throughout his life. It only made him wonder how many more, similar or not, could be found on this body. How many bruises, gashes, lashes had he endured? Was this the only one, or the worst of them all?

"Give me your arm," John requested. Sherlock just stared at him, obviously trying to figure out the nature of this visit. "Give."

Once he held Sherlock's wrist in his hand, John started stretching him. He didn't know all of Sherlock's injuries, but he was able to figure out where he hurt, where he felt stiff, from the way he'd moved while packing up his flat. He lifted the arm up over Sherlock's head, twisting it a bit in both directions, and bending it at the elbow a few times. He went through the movements, counting them in his head, like opening night of a ballet. He put on a repeat performance with the other arm.

When he instructed Sherlock to lay back on the bed, he did so with a jump of his brow but little hesitation. John lifted one leg, bending it up and down, back and forth until the movement felt less forced. He did the same with the second leg and helped Sherlock sit back up. "Better?"

Sherlock nodded, face softening into one of his rare, genuine smiles. A sort of straight smile that could pass for a frown but they both knew what it was.

"Wow," Dr. Parson remarked. "I have to fight him for hours just to get him to sit still."

John bit his lip, glancing down at Sherlock who would still not meet his gaze. He stuck his hand out to Dr. Parson. "John Watson," he introduced as they shook. "I'm his doctor."

Dr. Parson's mouth opened as he realised. "Oh... You're the... the friend. The one who wrote up all his cases."

John nodded. "That's me."

"Well, I'll give you some space, then. I'll be back tomorrow, Sherlock." Dr. Parson left the room, closing the door behind him.

At last John had Sherlock in his grasp. He could finally shout at him for leaving him alone, scream and yell about how one is supposed to treat their friends, give an entire presentation, complete with notecards and worksheets, on the difference between protecting someone and lying to them.

But all he could bring himself to do was sit next to him, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at each other's sides again, and say, "I never stopped missing you."


	4. Locate, Approach, Remove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really glad so many people are liking the story. I'm surprised tbh. But thank you.
> 
> Also, some of you asked for longer chapters. They're coming. This story is going to consist of chapters that vary in length. Consider this your warning.

They sat in silence for a long while. John didn't know what to say. What did you say to a man who could say nothing back? Sure, there had been times when Sherlock wouldn't speak for hours, days, weeks, even. But this was more permanent.

"Your letter." John said. His hands were folded together in his lap. He stared straight ahead. "It seemed awfully sentimental."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock quickly glance down to hide the slight twitch of lips.

He turned to face him. "I'm not angry at you. I _am_ angry. But not at you."

Sherlock pulled a phone out of his pocket and began typing. When finished, he turned and showed the screen to John. 'Why not at me?'

"Because none of this was your fault," John reasoned. "You are responsible for your own decisions, but I understand why you made them. I do wish you would have talked to me, but we can't go back and change it now. I was angry. At you. For a long time, wondering why you would do that. But not anymore."

'How much did Mycroft tell you?'

"Not much," John admitted. "Only why you did it. And a bit of the how. Not what happened after."

'Then you know almost everything.' was what displayed on the screen this time. Then he typed again. 'Everything was pretty straightforward. Locate, approach, remove.'

"So what don't I know?"

Sherlock turned his head to the side a bit, and lifted a hand to point at the scars running over his neck.

"Ah. Right. Those look like they went fairly deep. Like they should have been... fatal, given the location."

'Moriarty's men were highly skilled.'

"Maybe you're just immortal."

John chuckled at his own joke, and watched as Sherlock cracked a small smile, heard the soft puff of breath that left the man's mouth. It took him a few seconds to realise that was Sherlock's laugh. That his laughter would forever be silent, save a heavy exhale.

Both their faces fell, looking away from each other.

"So. The packing?"

Sherlock's lips turned inward. 'I'm going to spend some time away.'

"Away? Away where? For how long?"

'My destination hasn't been decided yet. Duration is indefinite.'

John scratched his head. "When do you leave?"

'Soon.'

"Soon." John repeated. "You just got back and you're leaving already?"

'I've been back for some time.' was Sherlock's reply.

"Yes, but I didn't know about it, did I?" John asked loudly. "You can't just leave me like this again."

'It's for the best.'

John stood, hands on hips, posture perfect, and paced. "How. How is that for the best?" As he passed Sherlock, he grabbed the phone that was offered to him.

'It is best for me to distance myself from people I care about.'

"Why?"

'Moriarty's people are all dead. Who do you think killed them?'

John's mouth fell open as he stopped pacing. He looked down at Sherlock, who was gazing right back at him, a fierceness in his eyes he hadn't seen in years. They maintained eye contact until Sherlock grabbed the phone back from John's immobile arms.

Of course he assumed Sherlock had killed them. But he hadn't actually realised that he had killed them. He was the one who stopped the killing, or made sure the killer got punished. And now he was the killer. Ten, a hundred, a thousand times over?

Sherlock stood, pressing the phone into John's hands.

'I am dangerous. Any time a person comes within my field of vision, I instantly begin calculating the easiest, quietest way to kill them. You are not an exception. I must go.'

John shook his head. "You wouldn't hurt me. You wouldn't hurt anyone. Not without reason, and I know your brain is like a super computer, absorbing and processing data, and you may have developed an instinct to kill but you are not dangerous. You know the difference between threat and non-threat, between enemy and friend. You haven't even been startled by me."

'You should not be so quick to trust me.'

"You shouldn't be so quick to claim to know what's best for me," John argued.

'Maybe I'm not just doing it for you. Maybe this is a selfish act disguised by words of concern for you.'

"Is it?"

Sherlock's response was a dramatic shrug.

"I know what it is," John said, nodding to himself. "Yeah, you're worried that I might turn you away one day. That I'll just move on, and leave you behind. You're afraid. So you're pulling us apart before you can get hurt. Because you've gone against your own rules and made a friend. I won't let you do that."

'There's not much you can do to stop me.' It wasn't an admission or a denial.

"We'll see."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Then he seemed to rock backwards, arms bracing for impact upon the floor. His fall was as silent as he was.

In all of one second a hundred and one images flashed in John's head like an outdated projector, sticking and whining as the slide carousel danced around and around. He saw Sherlock on the roof, on the ground, drifting through the air like a feather in the wind. He recalled the Sherlock of his nightmares, split open and sewn up so he looked like a poor, weathered rag doll. The Sherlock of his daydreams, standing by his bedside, wings spread out and glowing more radiant than the sun.

But none of those Sherlock's were real, none of them were here.

After coming back from his reverie, John was immediately at Sherlock's side. He called the man's name. "Are you alright?"

With a hand on his forehead, Sherlock nodded, again typing away on the phone.

'I suffer from frequent dizzy spells. Head injury.'

He helped Sherlock sit up and kept a hand on his back for extra support. "And you want to go traveling like that? Why don't you just give it some time, yeah? Give yourself some more time to heal."

'I've had time.'

"Please."

Sherlock breathed hard, ready to stand his ground. Ready to remind John that he didn't care about pleases and thank-yous. But the desperation on John's face, the face of the person he was willing to die for, reminded him that he did care. At least when the pleases and thank-yous fell from those lips. 'A few weeks.'

The relief spread across John's face in an instant as he said, "Thank you." Then he was hugging Sherlock loosely around the shoulders.

In that moment Sherlock felt like a small child. Hugs had been a necessary evil then, and were an unwelcome gesture now, but he patted John's back.

"I still have most of your things," John announced as they stood. "I couldn't look at them, but... I couldn't get rid of them either. It's all it storage."

'It will be as if I never left.' After showing the screen to John he added, 'Almost.'


	5. Did Being Alive Make Him More Fake, Or Less?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope anyone who's been reading this story will read this note. I've upped the rating from teen to mature and added a warning for graphic violence because of some things that are going to happen (or be referenced, at least) in later chapters.

John's eyes flickered open and he breathed in a big breath. Even through his squint he could tell it was still dark, definitely too early to wake up. He rolled over, tugging at the covers to cocoon himself and go back to sleep. He opened his eyes one last time to be sure it was still dark and found a face staring intently at him.

He jumped back, heart pounding with the sudden influx of adrenaline.

Once his eyes acclimated to the dark, he recognised the face.

"Sherlock," he said, voice scratchy from sleep. He rubbed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it and squeezed his eyes shut.

John felt something tug in his chest. Sherlock could remember so many things no other human could possibly hold in their mind, and yet sometimes he still forgot he couldn't talk.

"Come here," John requested as he moved himself to sit on the edge of his bed.

Sherlock sat next to him.

"You alright?"

Sherlock nodded, but the tight look on his face told John he wasn't exactly sure. What did alright even mean? Was he alright or was he sick? Was he alright sitting there? Was he alright aside from his lack of voice? What was the standard, what was alright versus not alright.

John reached out, slowly so Sherlock would see and not be startled when a hand touched his back. He watched Sherlock's face soften, eyes drift closed for just a second. Sherlock had a tendency to flinch or defend himself at the threat of being touched. But it was no secret, at least between them, that despite what Sherlock had said at first, John was an exception. There was no way to rationalise how he seemed to relax anytime John reached out to steady him or pulled him in for a hug.

"How about I make us some tea?"

This time Sherlock's nod was not so conflicted.

\---

John sipped his tea, not taking his eyes off Sherlock, whose own eyes were closed and who had yet to touch his own cup of tea.

"So what were you doing?"

Sherlock's eyes opened and he reached for the pen and notepad kept on the counter. He quickly scribbled something on the paper and pushed it toward John. 'I was watching you sleep.'

"Why?"

His answer was a shrug and a sip.

John thought for a moment. "You used to do that before. Watch me sleep."

Sherlock took the pad back. 'Maybe you were closer to moving on than you thought.'

"No," John said, pushing the pad away as if it were the most offensive object he'd ever beheld. "I forgot one thing, that doesn't mean I was forgetting you."

'Might have been better.'

"Do you really think that? That I would be better off without you? Because that is absolutely ridiculous, and I'll never believe it."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the corner as he finished his tea.

\---

Later, after John had gotten some more sleep, there was a knock at the door.

John and Sherlock looked at each other from where they sat in their chairs.

It was John who stood to open the door. "Lestrade," he said when he saw who it was. "Er, come in..."

"Thanks," Lestrade walked in and locked eyes with Sherlock. The three men were quiet for a long minute. "I... I heard you were back. Well, everyone's heard, but there's not much in the papers. I assume that's thanks to Mycroft. Anyway, we could use your help."

Sherlock shook his head, looking away.

"Your brother said you weren't taking cases, but... we've got a double murder, no suspect, no weapon in sight."

John could see he wanted it, could see it in the tightening of his lips, the squeeze of his fists. It wasn't a particularly interesting case, but how long had it been since he'd had anything? He was itching for it.

"Why isn't he saying anything?"

John stared at him. "Didn't Mycroft tell you?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Tell me what?"

John looked toward Sherlock who was standing. Sherlock nodded as he put his coat on.

"Sherlock can't talk. Anymore," John explained. "Something happened while he was away and..."

Lestrade's mouth opened in shock. "He can't..." He looked back toward Sherlock, but he'd already left the flat.

\---

The boys arrived at the crime scene just seconds after Lestrade. The entire building was quiet as soon as Sherlock entered, mocking him. The winds died so the old walls didn't sway and squeak. Everyone stilled, so there were no heavy, creaky footsteps one would expect in a house full of police. All voices silenced, without so much as a whisper passing between any two people.

Nobody was really surprised. The news of the famous detective's return had spread quickly. But details were hard to come by. No one was granted interviews, no one had any facts. Articles were filled with reactions and rumours, guesses and opinions, all from unreliable mouths.

All eyes were on Sherlock. Where else would they be? He'd died a fake detective. Did being alive make him more fake, or less? Of course all eyes were on him. Except his own, which were currently scanning the two dead bodies.

One laid on a sofa, dark hair covering her face, right arm dangling so her curled fingers almost touched the floor, left arm draped over her chest. The second body was face-down on the sandy carpet in a typical sprawled-out pose. Both had gunshot wounds.

John watched Sherlock work, his movements being the only source of noise as the others simply stared at the detective. He could see Sherlock's lips moving, mouthing his observations and conclusions.

"Has he lost his touch, or something?" The voice, unsurprisingly, was Anderson.

Sherlock didn't see Donovan smack his arm, but he did hear Lestrade warning, "Shut it."

But Anderson didn't shut it. "I'm just saying that normally he would have insulted half of us by now."

"I mean it," Lestrade warned again. "Keep quiet."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade. 'Murder-suicide. House robbed after both dead for some time, gun stolen by robber.'

Lestrade felt the vibration in his pocket. He grabbed the phone out and read the message. But he didn't know how to respond. Text back? Ask out loud? Which would be worse? Would it matter? In the end he decided to reply to the text. 'How do you know?'

Sherlock bit his lip. Explaining his findings was the best part, but there was too much to type on a phone, or even write down. 'Can anyone on your team interpret for me?'

By now most of the other people in the room were confused, looking on at the exchange.

'Interpret?'

'Sign language.'

That made sense, of course Sherlock would have picked up sign language. Lestrade didn't know how long he'd been without a voice, but regardless he doubted it would have taken him very long to learn. There was, actually, someone who could interpret. He just didn't know how Sherlock would react. 'Sally Donovan is the only one here. We can try to call someone else in, if you want.'

Sherlock turned, giving Donovan a quick glance before turning back to John and standing close. He showed John the conversation.

"I don't know if we can trust her," John whispered. "She might not interpret correctly, she might tell people..."

'I want this to be over as soon as possible.' Sherlock typed the message out for him. 'I don't want to do this anymore.'

John looked up from the phone and saw the defeat in Sherlock's eyes. "Okay, whatever you want to do, Sherlock."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John's, unable to withstand the anger he saw in them. He knew the anger was not aimed at him, but at Moriarty. But it still hurt to look into those eyes and see the emotions they held, and the ones they did not. He sent another text to Lestrade.

'Send everyone but Donovan away. We must do this quickly, and in private.'

"Alright, everyone back to the station," Lestrade commanded after receiving the text. They complained and gave Sherlock wary glares as they shuffled out of the house, chattering lightly and temporarily alleviating the stagnant silence. When Sally walked by, he stopped her. "Sgt. Donovan, I need you to stay."

"What? What for?"

Lestrade waited until he was sure everyone had gone before he answered her. "I need you to interpret some sign language."

"For who?"

"For Sherlock," Lestrade answered.

Sherlock put on his business face, a calculated contortion meant to appear indifferent. Eyes just wide enough to show general humanity, lips straight and pressed together to appear patient, nostrils relaxed to imply calmness.

"Sherlock?" she asked. "Why does he need-" She stopped when she looked at him, eyes drawn to the raised skin on his neck that had previously been hidden by distance and his coat collar. She remembered his silent entrance, remembered he spoke not a word the whole time he was examining the crime scene. "Oh my god, is he..." She had to look away from him. "Okay. Go ahead. Not too fast though, I can't talk as fast as you... could. Sorry, I didn't mean, just... go ahead."

Sherlock began moving his hands at an easy speed. Of course he felt compelled to speed up, out of frustration with his thoughts moving faster than his body and out of the intense feeling of wanting to leave. He didn't like this, wasn't enjoying it. It was as pointless as everything else now.

Sally did not, despite what John suspected, purposely (or accidentally) misinterpret Sherlock.

When it was over, John had a strange compulsion to applaud. Sherlock's movements, as well as Donovan's occasional mimicry, appeared precise and choreographed. It told a story of its own. Behind the tale of the younger sister killing the older and then herself, was the parable of a man who'd lost everything and a woman who felt responsible and so, so ashamed.

Lestrade had managed to listen to the entire explanation even though he too was entranced by the dance of hands. "Well, thanks," he said, feeling embarrassed at not knowing what else to say.

Sherlock's hands moved in a tiny encore and Sally looked at him, confused and a bit sad.

"What did he say?" Lestrade asked.

She looked between the two and then at John, who looked just as confused and expectant as Lestrade. "I don't-"

Sherlock repeated the movement, slower so she could copy the move so she could be sure she was not mistaken in her translation.

"He asked not to be consulted anymore. He doesn't want anymore cases."

He wasn't sure if it was the absoluteness of the silence in the room or the weight of the gazes he could feel on him, but Sherlock found himself starting to tip forward as a rush of dizziness whirled through him.

John caught him at the waist, Sally at the elbow. Sherlock's body stiffened at the touch and Sally pulled away.

"Is he alright?" she asked simultaneously with Lestrade.

"He gets dizzy..." John answered, not looking away from him. He took his hands away from him but Sherlock swayed again. John steadied him again and this time Sherlock held onto him, as if along with the dizziness he'd also lost a lot of the strength in his leg. His fingers dug into John's arm, trying to stabilise himself.

After a few seconds, his strength was back and his head was clear. He released John, using his eyes to send an apology for grabbing him too tightly. John gave a tiny shake of his head, he knew Sherlock didn't mean to hurt him, and it wasn't really that bad. And although Sherlock had let go of John, John did not let go of Sherlock. Instead, he locked arms with him in case it happened again.

While Sherlock thought it unnecessary, he made no effort to remove him.

"Donovan," he started, "thanks. For... translating." He continued after she gave a reserved nod. "We'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about him. People will find out, eventually, but..."

"I won't. I won't say anything about it," she promised. "Sherlock?" Once she had his attention, she signed a few words to him.

He replied as best he could with one arm partially restrained. Her hands moved a bit more and his only response was a low nod. He tugged lightly on the arm wrapped through his. He and John walked out, arms linked, and caught a cab home.


	6. I Was Sure Of It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of right now, this story has 31 chapters outlined. It could have more, depending on how they're actually written, but I don't see it ending up with less. Just so y'all know what to expect.

After they returned home, Sherlock sat on the sofa. Perfectly still, eyes closed, hands folded under his chin. No part of him moved, to the point that John wondered if he was even breathing.

For the first hour, John tried to ignore it. He cleaned, made tea, and spent some time on his computer.

He started to catch up on some reading during the second hour. It was hard to focus, however, and he couldn't retain very much of what he'd read.

By the time nearly three hours had passed John was really starting to worry. The Sherlock he knew before could sit and think for hours, yes, but never had he been so still. He usually moved his hands, his shoulders, or at least his eyes as he scanned the images his brain projected into his physical world.

John stood in front of Sherlock, and waved a hand to see if the motion would rouse him. When that didn't work, he wondered if the man was sleeping. It was a rare thing, even rarer for him to see it, but he did know what Sherlock looked like when he slept and it wasn't this. He almost laughed when he thought up images of a disheveled Sherlock twisted up in sheets, limbs thrown about in all kinds of positions. Sleep was when he was least composed, and that was probably part of his disdain for it.

He took a seat beside him, still not able to disturb him. "Sherlock," he whispered.

Sherlock's eyes popped open in one quick, fluid movement before darting right, left, up, down as if he was unsure of his surroundings. Once he figured out he was at home and felt the weight to his left, he finally looked at John, who wore a face full of concern.

"Sherlock," he said again, "are you okay?" He found himself asking that question a lot. Every time, Sherlock would nod. Even if he wasn't, and even if he knew John could see it, he nodded.

This time Sherlock shook his head.

And John didn't know what to say.

Any other time, he would put a hand on Sherlock's back and offer to make tea or to talk to him about things that didn't really matter but seemed to distract him.

"What were you thinking about?"

Sherlock pulled out the pad and pen he now kept in his pocket at all times. He hated those things more than anything. He just wanted to talk, he was tired of writing or texting just to have a conversation with his flatmate. There was a time when he wished he'd never have to speak again, and now he wondered if someone somewhere had misheard.

'I wasn't thinking.'

"Were you asleep then?"

Sherlock's head shook again as he wrote his response. 'Not sleeping. Dreaming.'

"What do you mean?"

'While I was away, I occasionally had difficulty focusing on the task at hand. I learned to focus my attention on one thing, one task, but block it from my immediate thoughts. Dissociative multitasking.'

"Isn't that dangerous?"

Sherlock tilted his head, asking for an explanation.

"Well, if you're doing something but not thinking about it, not paying attention, someone could get hurt."

'That was the point.'

"No, I don't mean whoever you were... targeting," John argued. "I mean you. _You_ could've gotten hurt, Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned away from him, eyes fixed in a downward stare, head turned slightly away. To John he looked like a child who'd been scolded for spilling his milk.

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell... I'm sorry." But Sherlock wouldn't look at him. He noticed Sherlock's hands balling into tight fists, so he covered one of the fists with his free hand, trying to calm him. "Sherlock, please," he said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Focusing on the thumb stroking over his shoulder, the warm palm covering the back of his left hand, Sherlock began to relax. He sank back into the sofa, letting his head roll back.

John moved his hand so both here holding Sherlock's. As he laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder, he thought back to a time when he would be afraid of someone walking in, seeing them so close. But those worries were long gone.

After a moment of confusion and hesitation, Sherlock allowed his head to rest on John's.

"I'm sorry," John said again.

'It's alright.' He wrote with his free hand.

"No, it isn't. I didn't want to upset you. I just... I always worried about you, you know? Anytime we had a case, if I couldn't be with you... I knew you could take care of yourself but I just worried so much."

'I worried about you as well. Even more so after I left. Every day, you were all I thought about.'

"Why?" John was sure there were a million other things Sherlock could have thought about. What made him so important?

Sherlock wrote out his response but contemplated scratching it out and rewriting it. John new most of what had happened in his time away, the things he'd done and endured. But he new very little of what went on in Sherlock's head, and he wasn't sure how much he was ready to share with him. 'I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I was going to die. I was sure of it.'

John went a bit cold, but reminded himself that Sherlock was here, alive. "But you didn't."

'Any statistician would have said it was impossible for me to survive. And yet I did.'

"And I'm glad."

Sherlock cracked a tiny smile. 'So am I.' Although he would have been glad either way, if it had meant protecting John. And the squeeze he felt around his hands told him John was aware of that.

"Can I ask you something?" He giggled a bit as Sherlock's nod tickled his ear. "What did Sally say to you as we were leaving today?"

'She apologised. Seems like everyone is apologising to me since I've gotten back. I don't understand.'

"They're sorry they misjudged you, treated you like a non-human."

'Why?'

"Because you're _not_ a non-human. And it took your suicide and then your miraculous return from the dead to show them that."

'But you always knew.'

"Of course I did. Even when you doubted it yourself. I never stopped believing in you."

After a few minutes of comfortable silence Sherlock wrote one final thing on the pad. 'I'm going to try to get some sleep.'

John sat up, releasing Sherlock's hand from his. "Okay. I'm staying up for a bit. I'm here if you need me."

Sherlock flicked his hand through the air to say he understood. His last thoughts before pushing himself into a deep sleep were _yes, John, I need you._

\---

John didn't go to sleep that night, didn't even bother to try. He knew his thoughts about Sherlock would keep him awake. What went on in his head? What did he dream about?

He'd worried about him so much before, when they ran around chasing criminals and seeking danger. But he was starting to worry more than ever now. He was so different, his lack of voice couldn't be the only thing causing him such pain. Something else must have happened to him, and sometimes it seemed like Sherlock was about to tell him what it was.

But he always changed his mind, the inability to speak giving him more time to think about what he was about to say.

John didn't know what it was like to be practically trapped in your own head, but he knew it could be dangerous. And with a mind like Sherlock Holmes, he was bound to get lost once in a while.

Sherlock might find a dead end and not be able to backtrack out of it. He could find a room in his palace that he never knew existed before, and have the door close on him. A memory might jump out and distract him, pulling him so far off his path that he wouldn't realise he was lost until it was too late.

John just hoped he would be able to find him if it happened. He hoped he was enough (strong enough, clever enough, important enough) to help him.


	7. What Would You Have Me Do About It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for this chapter to be so short (trust me, I have every last detail planned out) but the end just seemed like it needed to have a pause bigger than a section break so yeah. Chapter 8 is almost done though, so that will be posted either later tonight or sometime tomorrow.

By the time the sun rose, John had actually managed to get some sleep. He'd dozed off for about an hour on the sofa, the sleep dreamless and constantly interrupted by fits of blurry almost-awakeness.

He walked to Sherlock's room to check on him. Sometimes, even though Sherlock has been back for a few weeks, he's still afraid to open the door. Afraid to find it empty and cold, like it had been for so long.

But he pushed the door open just a crack, and there was Sherlock, face down and completely tangled up in his sheets. And he was most likely to stay that way for a few more hours, if not for the rest of the day, so John thought it was the perfect time to pay the other Holmes brother a visit.

\---

"Ah, John, how lovely to see you again," Mycroft said from behind his desk. "How have you and my brother been getting along?"

"Something's wrong with him," John wastes no time with niceties. "He won't... he's different. I mean even more different, now. He seems... defeated."

Mycroft set down his expensive pen and looked up from his papers. "What would you have me do about it?"

"Tell me why."

"That is something you should talk to him about, not me."

"Well," John started, "he doesn't do much talking, lately, in case you haven't noticed."

Mycroft stood and wore a face of stone. "I can see you're frustrated, but there's no need to take it out on me. Sherlock is mute, and, while it is unfortunate, it is not my fault."

John tried to calm himself. He'd always been protective of his friend, since the very beginning. And now he just felt so helpless. He couldn't _protect_ Sherlock now, but he could try to help him in this aftermath. "I know. Just... there has to be more than that, Mycroft. I know he's upset about not being able to talk, but there's something else going on. Every day he gets worse, more reclusive."

"Not unusual for him, I'm afraid," Mycroft reminded him.

"But he can communicate. Talking would be faster and easier, yeah, but he's adapting. He writes, or texts, or uses sign language, or even uses a touch to communicate something. His lack of voice isn't the only problem, and I can't help him without knowing what else he's been thinking about. And I know he gave you permission to answer any question I had. So tell me. What else happened to him while he was out there."

"At the time that permission was granted, he was under the impression that he'd lost your friendship for good; I doubt it applies now."

"A technicality," John pointed out. "Please. I need to know."

Mycroft was silent for a few seconds before leaning against his desk. "A lot happened to him. He broke a lot of bones, took a few too many hits to his skull, and watched many people die by his own hand. He was captured and tortured, and part of this torture resulted in permanent loss of his vocal chords. He spent most of his time alone, planning, stalking, and killing. But, somehow, in the midst of all that, he did something no one would assume he had the ability to do."

"What happened?" John asked, finding it hard to believe there was something that a protective and vengeful Sherlock Holmes couldn't do.

"He fell in love, Dr. Watson."


	8. He Took The Advice And Made It His One Rule To Live By.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those asking, the last line of chapter 7 is not incorrect.

John stood, the shock of Mycroft's words causing him to short circuit. His brain rewound the tape, then played it again, and still it said the same thing. _He fell in love, Dr. Watson._

"Sherlock did?"

Mycroft gave a single nod. "Yes."

"He... told you this?"

Another stiff nod.

John wondered why Sherlock hadn't told him. He and his brother weren't exactly close, and John was his friend. And though everyone was entitled to their secrets, he had to wonder why Sherlock neglected to mention this when he'd been so honest about everything else. Emotions weren't as foreign to him as they once were and- this was probably why.

Funny. John felt a little sting in his chest. He'd thought Sherlock's newfound openness had had something to do with him.

And he remembered Sherlock's scribbles the night before. _Every day, you were all I thought about_. Not that it mattered, but it was clearly a lie if he'd gone and fell in love with someone.

He ignored the spark of anger when he felt worry building up inside him. Sherlock had been on a dangerous mission...

"Did something happen? To whoever he... did they get hurt, or..."

"No, nothing like that," Mycroft assured. "Sherlock... protected him with everything he had."

John didn't flinch at the pronoun. As far as he'd known, sherlock wasn't attracted to anyone, so surely the gender wouldn't have mattered when he did finally love someone. "Then why is he so... why is he here? Why isn't Sherlock with him?"

"He didn't return Sherlock's feelings," Mycroft said easily. "He remains under my watch and protection. They've kept in contact, although Sherlock has plans to put an end to that." Mycroft's stone face faltered for a moment so small John thought he might have imagined it.

"Why?"

"I raised my brother, John. And all through our lives, I urged him not to get attached to anyone. As hard as he fights me, that is one thing we never argued over. He took the advice and made it his one rule to live by. But he never bothered to figure out what happened if the rule was broken, if it was beyond his control. He made this plan partly out of the pain he feels, and partly because that's the rule. He can't deny he's attached, but he can put as much distance between them and pretend."

"And what about you?" John found himself asking, though he didn't know why. He didn't know much of anything at the moment, to be honest. "What do you think of it?"

Mycroft shook his head, as close to an unknowing shrug as the man could get. "I think he's just trying to make the pain stop. But I'm not sure it's ever going to, no matter the distance." Yes, Mycroft had warned him. But seeing his little brother suffering didn't, for once, make him want to say 'I told you so'. It just made him want to see the pain go away.

\---

John took the steps up to 221B quietly, so he could hear any sign of Sherlock being awake. He didn't have to guess, though, when he opened the door and found Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring at his violin.

He did that sometimes. He hadn't played it once since he got back, but he held it.

"I keep waiting to wake up to hearing you playing," John said as he shut the door.

Sherlock put the instrument down, standing it against the chair, bow at its side. Then he typed something quickly on his phone and tossed it to John. 'You smell of Mycroft.'

John chuckled before walking over to Sherlock and returning his phone. "How long have you been awake?"

'Not long. Are you upset with me?'

"What?" John wondered aloud. "Why would you think that?"

'I can see it on your face. What have I done?'

"No, you haven't done anything, I just..." John tried to find the words. He wasn't angry. He was... hurt. And he felt guilty for going to Mycroft. As much as they acted like they hated each other, he knew that wasn't true. "Yesterday, you... scared me a little, with the whole... sitting there and not moving thing. So I went to Mycroft to find out if there was something going on. Something I could help with..."

Sherlock felt himself stiffen. There were plenty of things John didn't know, things he would reveal in his own time. 'What did he tell you?'

"He... said you'd, erm, fallen in love... with someone. While you were away." He stared at Sherlock, awaiting his reply. He hoped for Sherlock to deny it. For him to say Mycroft had lied. And he wasn't sure why.

'I did' was not the answer he was expecting, but it was the one he received.

John, in some corner of his mind, acknowledged that, among the multitude of things he was feeling right now, he felt a bit jealous. Sherlock was a man who purged himself of most emotion, especially those that would connect him to another human being. He was jealous that such a man would fall in love before he did.

Then he felt guilt bubble up in his chest because that was not how he wanted to feel toward his friend. He didn't want to feel like Sherlock didn't deserve to fall in love, because he did, he deserved anything he wanted. John was just... confused.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

'No.'

"It might help, Sherlock."

'It won't. And it's none of your business.'

John blinked at the words on the screen. Of course Sherlock was allowed to keep this to himself. Something so intimate and personal, especially for someone so alien to feeling. But that didn't stop the bit of anger tingling just beneath his skin. "Fine." He stood and went into the kitchen. All he wanted to do was help, but if Sherlock wouldn't let him then it was his problem.

Sherlock stood and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" John said, leaving the kitchen and the tea he'd started making. "You know you can't go out alone, what if something happens?"

'I'll hold on to the railing.'

"There's not railing everywhere, Sherlock, and no you won't anyway. Where are you going?"

'You're upset with me. Usually, when that happens, you leave. You won't now because you'll feel guilty for abandoning me but I don't need your pity. You want space, so I'm giving it to you.'

John sighed. "No, I'm sorry... I'm just confused. I guess I'm a little hurt that you wouldn't tell me that you... but I do understand if you'd rather keep it to yourself. You just seemed so out of it last night, and I felt helpless. I'm not upset. Well, I'm trying not to be, alright? If you still want to go out, you can, but I can't let you go out alone."

Sherlock looked like he was thinking about it. Who could escort him, other than John? As if he'd let anyone else anyway. He rolled his eyes and stuck out his elbow, creating a small gap for John to weave his arm through.

Which he did with a small smile. Just like that, they'd made up. John was still upset, but mostly at himself. He thought maybe he just didn't know what to do with this new information, this new knowledge about Sherlock and his apparently expanded emotional capacity.

\---

"So," John asked as they walked without a destination, "any particular place you wanted to go?"

Sherlock shook his head as he typed with his free hand. 'I just needed to get outside for a little.'

John nodded, understanding the flat feeling a bit stuffy during and just after an argument, even a resolved one. "I was going to do some shopping this afternoon, we're running low on food. D'you want to come with me?" He said it mostly as a joke, the thought of Sherlock Holmes willingly accompanying him on a grocery run causing him to chuckle a bit.

'Won't I be in the way?'

"Of course not," John answered immediately. "But it's fine if you don't want to."

Sherlock gave no response, only kept following John's lead as he tugged him at the arm. John assumed that meant he _wanted_ to accompany him, he just didn't want to say it.

It was one of the most Sherlock things he'd done lately, and it made John feel a little better.

\---

They'd continued to walk in silence until they reached the store. John put a basket in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes but carried the basket as John pulled items from the shelves and placed them inside.

He was just starting to think the basket felt a little heavy when he felt someone bump into him from behind.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a voice said.

They turned around, John having felt the bump as well.

The voice belonged to a woman about an inch shorter than John, with light brown hair to her shoulders and a pair of black-framed glasses sitting on her nose.

"It's alright," John said, "no harm done."

The woman smiled at his forgiving voice. "I should have been paying more attention."

"It's fine, really," John promised.

She smiled again and looked to Sherlock, expecting him to give her the same assurances the other man had. But he said nothing, only looked around, as if he were waiting for this exchange to end. She saw their arms linked and bit her lip. "That's cute," she told them, "couples doing their shopping together."

At her words, Sherlock pulled his arm free and put a few inches between him and John. He got a quick glance from John but it was over in a flash and then he was talking to the women again.

"Ah, it's not like that," he said. "He's... recovering from an injury, so I-"

"Oh, I see," she interrupted, the rest of the explanation unnecessary.

\---

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" John asked Sherlock. He was running just a few minutes late for his third date with Mary, the woman he'd met while shopping. He'd left Sherlock alone in the flat plenty of times before, but he'd been doing it more frequently now.

Sherlock held up the paper that said 'I will be fine', as he'd answered that question a few times throughout the week and was tired of writing the same thing over and over again.

"Mrs. Hudson is downstairs."

'I am not a child, I don't need someone keeping an eye on me at all times.'

"I know, I know. I'll be back later, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and shooed John out the door. He knew John was worried about him being alone, and even more worried that he would leave the flat alone, but he was tired of being treated like this.

Once John was out the door and far away from Baker Street, Sherlock donned his coat and left the flat.


	9. This Wasn't Something New For Him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the new series starting to film soon this story feels kind of pointless...

John's first date with Mary had just been coffee and an hour of polite conversation.

The second was drinks alcoholic in nature and a lot of flirting.

Tonight John was determined to show her a nicer time. He was taking her to dinner, not at a particularly fancy restaurant, but tasteful enough to make an impression. The place was quiet but didn't forbid conversation.

"So tell me about your flatmate," Mary said over her scampi.

That was something they hadn't discussed. Mary had only met him that once, and John didn't normally talk about him to his girlfriends.

"He's... interesting," John answered.

"What does he do for a living?"

John cringed a bit. "He's retired, actually. He used to be a detective-"

"Really?" She sounded impressed. "That sounds exciting."

"It was, I used to go with him on some of his cases. Most of them, really, after we started living together. It was amazing."

"Why'd he stop then?"

"Don't you... I mean most people heard in the news..." Then John remembered he never actually mentioned the man's name. "He's Sherlock Holmes."

He saw the recognition in her eyes. Of course she knew, everyone knew. "John Watson," she said, getting it. "I didn't realise... it sounds like a common name..."

"It's fine," He said. "Most people don't realise right away."

"So he really stopped solving crimes? He just... gave it all up?"

John nodded. "I guess it's not the same anymore..."

\---

After dropping Mary off at home, and managing to secure a fourth date, John returned to his own home. He knew Sherlock probably wouldn't want to hear about his date, but he would tell him anyway and he would watch Sherlock roll his eyes and that would be the end of it for the night.

But when John entered, he didn't see his flatmate. Not on the sofa, not in his chair. Not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. Not in his own bedroom, or John's bedroom. He went down to Mrs. Hudson, to see if maybe Sherlock was with her.

He wasn't.

But she told him where he was.

\---

_Sherlock really was tired of being treated like a child who couldn't be left on his own. He didn't need someone constantly looking after him. He refused to be an inconvenience._

_As soon as John was gone, Sherlock put on his windbreaker (he missed his old coat, one of the unfortunate losses he suffered on his journey) and left 221B. He took the stairs, disregarding the bannister._

_Halfway down, a fit of dizziness struck, and he couldn't quite figure out where to put his foot next, so down he tumbled._

_At hearing the clatter, Mrs. Hudson quickly came out to see what had happened, having been warned beforehand that Sherlock might try to escape._

_Well, he wasn't going to get very far lying unconscious on the floor._

_The sight of Sherlock on the ground was unsettling to anyone close to him, but thankfully she didn't have to look at it for too long as Sherlock began to awaken. He blinked and tightened his lips, outraged. He used to be the cleverest man in the world, able to do anything. Now he couldn't even go down the stairs properly._

_He allowed Mrs. Husdon ("Oh dear, Sherlock, look at you,") to help him sit up against the wall. Then he handed her his phone, which he'd already dialed for her._

_Mycroft arrived as quickly as he could, Dr. Parson in tow, and was relieved by the lack of serious injury. Sherlock signed to him and the doctor that he was fairly certain he'd broken his ankle._

_Dr. Parson looked Sherlock over and wrapped his ankle temporarily while Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had a chat inside._

_"What about John?" she asked him._

_"Sherlock asked that John not be disturbed while out," Mycroft answered, with a bit of a sigh._

_That didn't sound quite right to her, but she supposed Sherlock was just trying to be a better friend than he'd been before, so she agreed._

_When Sherlock's ankle was wrapped, he stood, refusing to lean on the doctor or his brother when they offered. He could walk through the pain. This wasn't something new for him._

_"I'm taking Mr. Holmes into my practice to give him a proper cast. The ankle is broken, and he has some bruising on his arms, but he'll be fine with time to heal."_

_Sherlock refused to look any of them in the eye as he was led out of the building, Dr. Parson's hand at his elbow should the dizziness strike him again._

\---

John sighed and scratched his neck. He knew something like that was going to happen eventually. The only thing that surprised him was that it took this long.

"You could have phoned me, I wouldn't have minded," John said. Because he really wouldn't have. Mary may be his first girlfriend since Sherlock's return, but she wouldn't be the last. Sherlock would interrupt him and she would eventually break up with him. He'd accepted that.

Mrs. Hudson told him it really wasn't a big emergency, nothing to ruin a date over, and after fussing over him for a bit she eventually returned to her own flat.

Once alone, John pulled out his phone, checking for texts from Sherlock or a missed call from Mycroft. There was nothing. Sherlock he could understand, texting John meant acknowledging he'd done something stupid. But he would have expected something from Mycroft, a strong voice telling him to take better care of his brother.

But there was nothing.

He tried texting Sherlock himself but there was no reply.

He waited up for hours; he wanted to be awake when Sherlock came home so he could check him over himself. Not that he doubted Dr. Parson's abilities, but he doubted he'd get anywhere with Sherlock.

Finally the fatigue, and the anger, if he was being honest, started getting to him as the night went on, and he went up to bed, slamming his door behind him even though no one was around to hear it.


	10. Instead You Pass Me A Note Like We're Schoolchildren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried about thirty times to post this chapter and every time something has gone wrong. Hopefully everything is good now.
> 
> Be aware that I've added some new warnings to the story, and may continue to add in the future. I do have everything outlined but who knows what shape the story will actually take.
> 
> And thanks to everyone who's commented or given kudos. I didn't expect this story to be received so well and I'm glad you're enjoying it.

John awoke the next morning to the sound of a door closing. Not quite a slam, but deliberately loud enough to cause him to stir. He hurried out of his room in his pyjamas and flew down the steps, just in time to see Sherlock taking off his jacket.

"You were gone all night?" he asked. "You could've texted me, at least, to let me know you were alright."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to John, turning away just as he heard the other man's phone buzz.

'I'm alright.'

John glared at him. "That isn't funny, Sherlock. Where were you?"

'I don't need a chaperone. Where I was is my business.'

John watched him try to navigate through the sitting room to his chair, noticing he was a bit wobbly. It was different from his dizziness, when he'd sway and seem to become dead weight. This was pure uncoordination. "Have you been drinking?"

Sherlock shook his head and lifted his left leg, pointing to the cast around his ankle.

"Right," John remembered. "Shouldn't you have crutches or something?" When Sherlock waved his hand like it wasn't a big deal, John sighed. "Doesn't it hurt?"

'It's not the worst pain I've experienced.'

"When's the last time you ate?" John asked. It was obvious Sherlock wasn't going to tell him anything about his injury or where he was after it was taken care of. So now he just wanted to make sure the rest of him was taken care of. "Or slept?"

Sherlock shrugged, leaning to the side and holding his head up with his arm.

"Over a week?"

Another shrug. It was one thing for Sherlock to go long stretches without sleep, but food was different. At the most he'd go three to four days before finally acknowledging that he needed to eat something.

"You're really pushing the limits here, you know that? You realise you could die, Sherlock. Without enough sleep and solid food you'd just... stop, after a while." The room was full of a heavy silence until John closed his eyes. "Oh, god, tell me that is not what you're doing."

He walked over to Sherlock and kneeled in front of him, trying to get a good look at his face. It was pale and thinner than it had been, and he'd already been so thin when he came back. "You'd really do that to me again?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to meet John's. He saw his own ghost in them, all the pain John had suffered in his absence.

"I'm going to get you a glass of water, and you're going to drink it. And then I'm going to get you some toast, and you're going to eat it. And you're not going to argue with me at all because if you do, I'll drag you to the hospital because I am not going to let you starve yourself to death. I won't watch you die again."

Sherlock watched him go into the kitchen. All he wanted was for John to be free of him.  
\---

_When Sherlock's eyes opened, he found himself on the floor, all twisted up. For a moment he had no strength, no power over his muscles, and all he could do was lie there. When he finally could prop himself up a bit, he found a frightened Mrs. Hudson looming over him, and didn't stop her when she moved to help him sit up._

_Moving his legs gave him a bit of a shock when he felt a stabbing pain. But he moved through it; it was just a broken ankle, nothing serious._

_Inside he was screaming at himself. Not for not holding on to the handrail, but for not being able to get by without it._

_Mrs. Hudson's first instinct, he knew, would be to contact John. But he couldn't let her do that. He was through ruining everything for him. He grabbed his phone, glad it hadn't been damaged, and dialed his brother before handing it to his landlady._

_She looked a bit confused at first, as if she wasn't sure what to do, but then she saw the screen and figured it out, explaining to Mycroft what had happened._

_After Mycroft and Dr. Parson arrived and Sherlock told them about his ankle, his brother and Mrs. Hudson left, presumably to talk about him, as if he wouldn't figure it out._

_He allowed this doctor to put a temporary wrapping on his ankle and check for other injuries he might have attempted to hide. He'd have preferred John, no secret to anyone present, but he refused to pull him away from his date with Mary._

_He knew John was expecting it, could read it in his body language every time he spoke of her, and he appeared to have accepted it with little hesitation._

_And that was the last straw for Sherlock. He thought of all the times, out loud or in his blog, that John had mentioned how much better his life had been since meeting him and just how wrong he was. He'd been cured of a limp, sure, but was it really worth all the danger and all the failed relationships and all the rumours? If anything, John was the one who'd improved Sherlock's life._

_And how did he repay him?_

_All he did was use him. John seemed to up his abilities of deduction and logic; he kept him fed and off the drugs and he put up with his clutter and whining and insults. Why?_

_Because that's what friends do._

_But Sherlock knew he was no friend to John and now he had even less to offer him since his return. Without the cases he was always miserable, leaving John to deal with his silent moping, and there was no adrenaline rush to be had by either of them. That was all he had to begin with, the ability to give him a thrill, and now it was gone. It was a delusion of a friendship and, whether John knew it or not, Sherlock knew the only reason John was putting up with him now was because he felt responsible._

_And Sherlock just wanted to forget. Just for one minute, one minute where he didn't have to think, didn't have to think of all the unnecessary pain he'd caused him. He wanted to go back to a state of mind where he didn't care, a state of absent emotion._

_So when Dr. Parson's touch on his arm strayed from professional to sensual, moving slowly from wrist to elbow, Sherlock knew what was happening. It had happened before, continuously, once he was in this man's care. He'd put an end to it once he revealed himself to John, but right now he rejected the idea that John even existed; he built a wall in his head that kept emtions so far away it was like he'd never had any._

_Dr. Parson's lips were at his ear, whispering, "Would you like me to take a look at this in private?," and Sherlock was so far gone from himself that he agreed_.

\---

John spent the day looking after his friend. He seemed so far away, letting John feed him and check him for bruises. He found some big purple ones on his arms, nothing out of the ordinary. The ones on his hips, though, seemed a bit out of place since there weren't any on his chest or back. But Sherlock was amazing at getting either no injury at all or the strangest anyone could manage, so John wasn't worried.

They spent a few hours (after John had gotten dressed) together on the sofa, John reading and Sherlock simply sitting with his eyes closed, running over plans and possibilities in his head. Every once in a while John would get up and bring Sherlock something to eat or drink, and Sherlock would take it without a fuss.

"Sherlock," John said, when it started getting late, "If you're going to have your eyes closed anyway, why don't you go get some sleep. You need it."

Through the weeks John had managed to pick up some sign language, just a few words when Sherlock interacted with his brother, so Sherlock signed, 'I can't'.

"You can try."

Sherlock's eyes opened but he shook his head without looking at John. He'd tried last night, when he was sure he was tired out. But sleep never came.

John could tell something was wrong. Not sleeping was normal for Sherlock. Not being able to was not. He put his book down between the sofa cushion and the arm rest. "Come here." He remembered the last time he held Sherlock; the man had gone straight to bed. So he pulled him over, laying him down so he had Sherlock's head in his lap. It might have looked strange to anyone else but John would do anything to get him to sleep when he needed it.

Sherlock closed his eyes again as he felt John's fingers start running through his hair. This was what he wanted, what he wanted to _feel_. Any attempt to get this from anyone else was in vain and he knew it, but he couldn't have this forever.

That point was only made clearer when Mrs. Hudson came through the door, a familiar young lady trailing behind her.

Mary gave a little wave and smile to John and then looked down at the man in her boyfriend's lap.

Sherlock felt the fingers in his hair stop moving and opened his eyes. He really did ruin everything didn't he? He quickly jumped up from the sofa, intending on getting to his bedroom as soon as possible so as to be out of their way, but he moved a bit too fast and lost his balance, and the sudden pain in his ankle only caused him to stumble more.

John was up in a flash to steady him but Sherlock shoved him away and left the room, pain and dizziness be damned.

Once in the privacy of his own room, door shut and locked behind him, Sherlock fell to his knees. He had to get out, he had to go somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here.

Back in the sitting room, Mary's eyebrows were raised after observing the event. "Is he alright?"

John put his hands on his hips. "I don't know. I never know what's going on in his head."

She pouted. "I don't think he likes me very much."

"He doesn't like anybody, don't take it personally," John explained.

"He... seems to like you," she pointed out, remembering the scene she'd seen when she first walked in.

"I'm his friend, Mary. The only one he's got. Half because he dislikes people, and half because no one else has ever taken the time to understand him."

She gave a small but understanding smile. Even her own friends wouldn't stand by her like that. "He's lucky to have you."

"We're both lucky."

"So. You ready to go for dinner?"

\---

Mycroft took John's leaving as an opportunity to pay his brother a visit. Uninterrupted. He entered 221B with ease, going right to Sherlock's room.

He knocked. "Sherlock, I know you're here. I will find a way into your room if you don't come out."

The last thing Sherlock wanted right now was a conversation with Mycroft. But he knew it needed to come soon. He'd put up with his brother's gloating if it meant getting away from John.

He stood and opened the door, leering at the man on the other side.

'What do you want?' he signed.

"John may not know where you were last night, but I do. Sherlock, how can you be so foolish?"

'It is not your concern.'

"But it is," Mycroft argued. "You came to me for help. Do you understand that? You came to me because you didn't want to burden John. But it's doing more harm than good."

Sherlock ran through a list of possibilities in his head. He wanted just a little more time here, time to get used to the idea of leaving. For good this time; coming back had been a mistake and he knew that now. He'd known it before but told himself things would be better if he could just see John again.

'I need to leave.'

Mycroft shook his head. "You need to stay. You need him."

'I cannot stay here. I cannot stand to ruin his life.'

"I'm sure he doesn't see it that way."

'We both knew this day would come. From the beginning, we knew my time with him would end. Get me out before he decides to leave. I don't care where I have to go.'

Mycroft sighed. He didn't want Sherlock to remove himself from John. Dr. Watson had kept him healthy, had given him a reason to come home alive. But Mycroft didn't know how to handle these other things. These things that caused Sherlock pain. He hadn't experienced them himself, and so he, for once, couldn't be sure what was the right thing to do now. "I'll look into it."

\---

Sherlock had always preferred being alone. People were tedious and annoying and the only way he could get anything done was to be isolated from them.

So when his brother finally left, Sherlock expected to feel relief. No one around but Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Plenty of room for his mind to expand without being interfered with.

But he just felt heavy. His body was light and lithe but he just felt gravity latching onto him. It didn't make sense, gravity wasn't sentient and certainly didn't have arms to pull him down, but he was feeling it. A thousand cold, skeletal hands rose from below and latched onto him, bringing him to the floor once more, pinning him there, filling him with lead.

He laid there, the darkness giving him hope that sleep would come. His activities last night were less of a distraction and more of a reminder of something he could never have. He'd never wanted sleep more than he did right now. He'd rather have any nightmare than this, simply because he would be safe in the knowledge that it wasn't real.

But sleep did not come. He was so tired. So ready to let go. Gravity's hands were still on him. Why didn't they pull harder? Surely they could simply carry him down into the earth. Maybe there he'd be able to get some sleep.

All of time seemed to pass by, and yet he felt outside of time completely. What was he doing? Was he on the floor or the ceiling? Where was John?

\---

John's dinner with Mary was cut short.

"I'm sorry," he continued to apologise as they left the restaurant.

"It's fine," she promised. "You're worried about him. I understand. There'll be other dates."

He nodded, relieved to hear she wouldn't dump him over this. He wondered how long this one would last.

They took separate cabs, since they were heading in opposite directions. She saw him off with a kiss.

John felt anxious the whole way back to Baker Street. Once he was there he paid the driver and sprinted up to the flat, a bit worried to see that Sherlock hadn't come out of his room.

He went to Sherlock's bedroom door, seeing it cracked open. He knocked softly. "Sherlock?" He whispered in case Sherlock proved to be asleep.

But the door slowly swung open. But he didn't see Sherlock. Then he happened to glance down, and saw his flatmate sprawled out on the floor, looking up at him with a confused stare.

"What are you doing down there?"

Sherlock held up his phone. 'Trying to sleep.'

John leaned down to read the screen, then asked, "On the floor?"

The amused tone in John's voice brought a hint of a smile to Sherlock's lips. He felt some of the weight lift off him. But he still had no motivation to move. 'The bed wasn't working.' He'd decided that if he couldn't fall asleep, he'd just lie there until he passed out.

"Do you want me to help you up?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking back up at the ceiling.

John thought for a minute. He seemed to reach a conclusion as he nodded to himself. "I'll be right back." He walked away, leaving Sherlock in his spot on the floor, the light flooding in through the door causing his head to hurt after sending so much time in the dark.

John returned a minute later, out of his daywear and into his pyjamas. He entered Sherlock's room and shut the door behind him, stumbling in the dark as he pulled the blanket and some pillows off Sherlock's bed.

Once his eyes adjusted a bit to the darkness, he sat next to Sherlock, offering him a pillow. Sherlock accepted it with caution, placing it behind his head. The other pillow was put next to his and the blanket thrown over him as John laid down beside him.

Sherlock felt a jolt of panic, fearing that whatever held him down would trap John as well. But soon he began to warm up, and the cold weight released him.

John shifted onto his side. Sherlock felt so cold. He got as close as he could without making Sherlock claustrophobic, and laid his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "You really are cold. How long have you been down here?"

Sherlock gave no answer, too busy focusing on the clarity returning to his head.

John put his arm across Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock, something's wrong. You've never... you've never really hesitated to talk to me about things, and so I've been worried about you. It's okay if you need to keep some things to yourself, but... I am your friend. I feel like I have to keep reminding you of that. Whatever is going on, you're going to be okay." John felt a certain amount of bitterness growing inside him. Whatever Sherlock was thinking about, it had to do with the man who'd so obviously broken his heart.

Soon he felt Sherlock's breathing slow, and saw his eyes were closed. _Thank god, he's finally getting some sleep_. He contemplated getting up and putting Sherlock on the bed for a more comfortable sleep, but he didn't want to risk waking him. Not to mention he was pretty exhausted himself, having spent practically the entire day worried about him. So he just stayed there with him and waited for sleep to claim him as well.

\---

The bright sunlight streaming in through the window woke John the next morning.

Sherlock was still asleep beside him (and partly under him), having rolled onto his stomach sometime during the night.

John rolled away and sat up, rubbing his eyes. It wasn't the most restful sleep, but it wasn't too bad. Should he wake Sherlock? He wanted him to sleep as long as he needed, but if he slept too long he may be left feeling even worse. And he should probably eat something.

"Sherlock," he called in a quiet voice. He rubbed Sherlock's back, trying to wake him without scaring him. "Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he sat up. The movement was too fast and made his head hurt, and he put his hand on his head in hopes that the pressure would relieve some of the pain.

John put one of his own hands on Sherlock's head and ruffled his hair, chuckling at the confused glare it got him.

"I didn't want to wake you but I think you should eat something. Then you can go back to sleep if you want."

Sherlock nodded as John helped him up, careful about the weight he put on his ankle.

"Do you want help walking?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly, pulling himself away from John's touch. He could walk by himself, so he did.

John followed, a bit hurt. But he didn't let it get to him.

He watched Sherlock sit in his chair. "I'll make breakfast?"

A small nod in his general direction was the only response he got.

As John prepared breakfast for the two of them, he couldn't help but feel the worry from last night return. Sherlock had been fine with John helping him before, and he didn't have a broken ankle then.

\---

Mary showed up again that evening.

"We don't have anything planned tonight..." John said, letting her in.

"I know," she smiled. "I thought we could have a night in."

"...Okay," John agreed. "We were just about to get takeaway."

Sherlock, who'd heard her voice as she came up the steps with Mrs. Hudson, was sitting on the sofa with a few files open on his lap.

Mary took a seat next to him as John went into the kitchen to call the order in. "Hello."

Sherlock moved his eyes from the files to her face and gave a small nod (and attempted a smile) to greet her.

She frowned a bit. "Erm, what have you got there?" She peeked over into the papers and photos Sherlock was looking at. It appeared to be some kind of unsolved murder case. "Huh. John said you were retired."

He picked the pad and pen out of his pocket and wrote something on it before passing it to her.

Mary took it with a bit of confusion, and read his writing aloud. "I have, but I need to keep my mind occupied." She scanned it again, frowning some more as if the color of the paper offended her. "You know, it's okay if you don't like me."

Sherlock looked up from the files again, staring at her. He really didn't understand what she meant. Why would he dislike someone who made John happy.

"It's a bit rude, though," she continued. "You could try to get to know me. But you won't even talk to me. Instead you pass me a note like we're schoolchildren."

Her quiet anger confused him more until, with the heaviness from last night beginning to return, he realised what must have happened.

He took the pad back from her and took his time writing out his response before handing it back to her.

'I see John neglected to tell you I'm mute.'

"Oh, god," she said, raising her hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know."

He shook his head, hoping she would understand that it was fine. He never considered John being embarrassed by him, but he must be. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his brother.

John came out of the kitchen just as his mobile began to ring. He'd just gotten off the phone, but he answered it when he saw the caller I.D. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock didn't know he could ever be so relieved to hear his brother's name.

He looked at Sherlock to relay Mycroft's message. "Did you have some kind of family meeting planned with Mycroft tonight?"

To keep up with the act, Sherlock rolled his eyes. But he nodded, standing up to get his coat.

John was a bit startled by Sherlock's lack of fight, but he supposed it was something even Sherlock couldn't get out of. "He said he sent a cab for you," he told him after hanging up. "When will you be back?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'll-" John cut himself off, figuring Sherlock would refuse his help and end up getting hurt again. "Please hold on to the bannister?"

As he left, Sherlock held his thumb up, signaling that he would. He kept the promise, taking the stairs slowly, not particularly interested in seeing any more doctors for the next few hours.

Just as he got outside, a cab pulled up to the kerb.

\---

John had listened for Sherlock to make it down the stairs alright before sitting next to Mary on the couch. He noticed her stiffen as he sat. "Is something wrong?"

"Why didn't you tell me he was mute?" she asked, disappointed.

"What? I'm sure I've mentioned it..."

"No, you didn't. And I sat here talking to him, wondering why he wouldn't talk to me. I know sign language, John, I could have..."

"I'm... sorry," John said. "It must have slipped my mind. I'm so used to it..." This was probably it for Mary. Though he did consider it an almost success, as she would break up with him because of something he'd done, not something Sherlock had done.

"Is there anything else I should know about him?" she asked after a few seconds of silence. "He's your friend, and I'm your girlfriend, so I think we should be able to get along."

John pinched his lips together. "Ah..." He'd honestly expected her to end it. "He's completely stubborn and usually ends up crashing quite a lot of my dates..." Honesty was probably the best thing at this point.

"Okay, well I'll be prepared for it now," she said. "Friends are important, I won't make you choose between us."

\---

Sherlock sat in Mycroft's study, hands folded under his chin. He just needed to breathe. He hadn't realised how hard it was to breathe at home until he got outside.

"I've found you somewhere to go," Mycroft told him when the silence became too much. Unlike John, he still wasn't used to Sherlock being unable to speak. It unsettled him. "There's a situation with our cousins in Norway. It's not a case, necessarily, just... you'll be looking after the estate."

Sherlock nodded. He didn't care. He had to go. Norway was far enough for now.

"I'll let John know you're spending the night. And if you try to sneak out I will know, and you won't get very far."

'Where would I go?' Sherlock signed.

Mycroft only gave him a warning glare.

'I've been sober for years.' It was true. Since John, Sherlock had been drug free, save the occasional cigarette. But he couldn't blame his brother for worrying.

\---

Sherlock spent the night in one of Mycroft's guest rooms. He didn't sleep, of course. He just sat in the centre of the large bed, knees at his chest, hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. He didn't want to see anything, hear anything. If he were able to numb each of his senses, now would be the time he'd use that power. Ever bit of stimuli added more weight to him, as if taking up physical space with his head. And when his head was full, it moved to the rest of his body.

Why wouldn't it stop? This heaviness that constantly filled him? It left him weary but unable to sleep. The only thing that could drive it away was John, but being near him only made him wish harder to get away.

\---

Sherlock had waited three days before telling John of his trip.

John didn't like the idea of him leaving. It couldn't be healthy for him to travel alone, to tear himself away from his only friend. "Why can't Mycroft take care of it?" he asked, even though he was helping Sherlock pack. He got no answer, but he wasn't really expecting one. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

'Could be a week,' Sherlock wrote on his pad. 'Could be permanent. It depends on the state of things.'

"Permanent? You mean you might... just never come back?"

'I can't help it.'

"The fuck you can't, Sherlock. What is going on? Just a few minutes ago you told me 'a short trip.' Permanently moving to Norway isn't a short trip."

Sherlock took his time to think out what he wrote. 'I need time away. My head isn't right, lately. And my cousins need someone to oversee things due to a recent event, so Mycroft is sending me in hopes that it will make me better.'

"Will it?"

'I don't know.'

"We'll text, right? Video chat? I know you can't talk, but you can type."

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright." John calmed down a bit. At least they would still see and talk to each other. "Is someone going to be with you? With your head and your ankle, you shouldn't be alone."

'I won't be.'

"Okay."

'What are you and Mary doing tonight?'

"Nothing," John said. "We didn't have anything planned, and this is your last night here, so I'm spending it with you."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that. He hoped it looked happier than it felt, though.

\---

That night, neither of them knew what to do. The last time Sherlock up and left John, John hadn't known it was coming. But now he did, and he didn't like it. They were friends. Not colleagues anymore, really, since Sherlock stopped consulting. But Sherlock was an important part of his life, and he'd only had him back for a handful of weeks.

He wanted to stay up the whole night with him, didn't want to waste a second of the time he had left. But in the end tiredness won out, and he really didn't want to be too tired to see him off in the morning, so he went to bed. It took him longer than usual to fall asleep, but eventually he did.

\---

Sherlock watched John go up to his bedroom. And the weight was back. This time he could almost see the spindly fingers closing around him. They were slower than before, but so much heavier.

He had to find a way to stop this.

He pushed himself off his chair and dragged himself to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror behind the sink and he could see them, gravity's arms, fingers like spider legs, almost mechanical as they closed around any part of him they could reach.

A part of him knew they weren't really there. They weren't real. But the feeling was real. With each passing second he felt heavier and heavier, and he began to wonder when the floor would collapse below him.

What compelled him to pick it up, he wasn't really sure. It glistened in the otherwise dark bathroom, and glided across his skin like a smooth silk. The razor seemed to cut through the cold fingers that had latched onto him. He watched them shrink away, back into the floor, and some of the weight seemed to go away. Just enough for his head to clear, enough so could see the blood dribbling out of his arm.

He blinked. Why had he done that? No, wait, what had he done, exactly? He raised his forearm so it was level with his eyes and he inspected the cut.

Then he blinked again as it began to sting. His whole arm felt hot, and the rest of him felt so cold. No longer heavy, but still cold as ice.

From the cabinet he pulled some antiseptic and tried to wash the cut. The bleeding slowed but didn't stop, so he put a gauze pad over it and wrapped it securely with some bandage.

Once the wound was out of his sight, he sat on the toilet and hung his head in his hands. What was happening to him? His cut stung, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his arm. But the weight was gone, at least.

\---

John wasn't asleep for long when he was roused by a knock at his door. "Sherlock?" He sat up and watched the door open.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking at the floor.

"You okay?"

He didn't move.

John took a deep breath. "Need help sleeping again?" He didn't think Sherlock would sleep again so soon, but it was the only thing he could think of. And Sherlock nodded. "Come here," he said. Sherlock hardly moved, just looked up at him with questioning eyes. "Sherlock, come here. I'm not sleeping on the floor again."

Sherlock closed the door and climbed into the bed, sitting next to John.

"What happened to your arm?"

Sherlock ignored the question, instead pulling John into a close hug. He held his breath until John's arms closed around him.

It wasn't that hard for him to get what Sherlock was telling him. "I'm gonna miss you too. Are you sure you have to go?" Sherlock's arms tightened around him and he felt him nod. "Okay. Then we'd better get some sleep. Come on."

He laid them down, still holding onto Sherlock. And they both fell asleep within minutes.


	11. Good Morning, Dr. Watson.

John rode in the cab with Sherlock on the way to the airport. Sherlock had only one small carry-on bag, opting to have the rest of this things sent ahead of him.

It didn't take them long to find Sherlock's gate. John handed him his bag and bit his lip. He wanted to ask again, was this really necessary? But he kept the question to himself.

"How long until you have to board?"

Sherlock was about to type out a response on his phone, but another voice came from behind them.

"There you are. I knew you'd be late but I didn't think you'd cut it this close." It was Dr. Parson. "Good morning, Dr. Watson."

John turned around. "Morning... what are you doing here?"

"You didn't think Sherlock would be going alone, did you?"

" _You're_ going with him?"

Dr. Parson nodded. "His brother insist he bring a medical professional. And I did treat him for quite a while."

"Yeah, well, I treated him longer," John said. He turned back to Sherlock. "If you need a doctor, I'll go with you."

Sherlock tightened his lips and shook his head.

An announcement from overhead asked passengers to board one final time before takeoff.

"Sherlock..." John didn't want to say goodbye, he hated that word. He wanted to take Sherlock in his arms, hold him tight and take him back to Baker Street where he belonged.

But Sherlock made no move to embrace him. He just stepped away, gave a small wave which John returned, and walked away.

He was gone before John even accepted the fact that he was leaving at all.


	12. You're Going To Teach Me To Play The Violin.

On the plane, Sherlock sat by the window. Normally, he didn't like sitting on the inside, as every person sitting aside of him would be a hinderance should he need to move. But having a window seat gave him something to stare at without drawing attention to himself.

Dr. Parson sat next to him, reading some book, occasionally giving a laugh or a sigh.

Every sound he made annoyed Sherlock to his core. Every cough, every shift, every page turn made him grit his teeth and hold his eyes shut until the feelings of violence faded.

When staring out the window stopped being an acceptable distraction, Sherlock reached into his small bag and pulled out some of the files Lestrade had given him. He'd stopped consulting, yes, but Lestrade knew he'd need something. Something to keep him from other things. So he'd accepted the box of unsolved crime files, packing a few in his carry on and the rest in things being sent over.

They weren't particularly interesting but they were something, infinitely better than sitting and doing nothing. Most of the time.

Dr. Parson lifted his gaze from his book and set it on Sherlock's file. "What are you looking into now? Murder? Robbery?"

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up. Communicating was tedious. Even signing, with the easy flow of hands, required more effort than Sherlock was willing to give for this man. It wasn't like talking to John; with just one look they could hold an entire conversation, even before he'd lost his ability to speak.

Parson sighed and went back to his novel. At least he was able to take that hint and leave Sherlock be.

\---

"Norway?" Mary asked when she found out Sherlock had gone. She'd come to Baker Street to pay them a visit, only to find John sitting alone on the sofa. "Why?"

John shrugged in a large movement. "I really have no idea. First he said his brother was sending him on family business, then he told me he was going to clear his head. But he never really told me what he'd be doing over there. And he took that Dr. Parson with him. I don't understand why he didn't ask me. I'm a doctor."

"Maybe he didn't think you'd go."

"No, he knows I would. He knows I'd do anything to help him."

Mary nodded. "Maybe that's it then. He didn't want you to drop everything to go with him."

"What?"

"Well he's your best friend, right? And he knows you're in a relationship, a relatively new one, too. And you've got your job. Maybe he just didn't want to inconvenience you by dragging you off to Norway for who knows how long."

"Would he do that?" The question was more for himself. Sherlock wasn't usually the one to care whether he was inconveniencing anyone or not. But, then again, Sherlock had changed since he and John first met.

"Wouldn't he?"

"Not usually, no."

"You told me having friends in the first place is unusual for him."

She was probably right, even though it sounded a bit ridiculous to him. But he would have gone if Sherlock had said he needed him. He would have put everything on hold before Sherlock even said _why_ he needed him. And he'd never make the mistake of assuming Sherlock didn't know that.

\---

Once they arrived in Norway, a car was waiting for them. Sherlock was desperate to get the the estate. He was prepared to spend three days locked in the room provided for him, with no interruptions from anyone for any reason.

A maid greeted them at the door and showed them to their rooms.

Sherlock found most of his things had arrived and was pleased to see none of it was unpacked. At least he'd be able to organize it so it became the strict chaos he preferred to live in. He was also pleased that Dr. Parson had left him alone, getting settled into his own room farther down the hall. He assumed Mycroft had asked the staff to room them as far away from each other as possible, a request with which he was perfectly fine.

But before he started unpacking his things, he thought he should go see the man of the house.

Across the hall was a door he knew had to be Dennison's. He knocked and heard something plastic be dropped on the floor before the door opened.

"Are you Sherlock?" The voice belonged to a six-year-old with a mild accent.

Sherlock nodded. Dennison was his first cousin once removed, grandchild of his mother's sister and her husband, who'd been killed eight days ago.

Dennison raised his hands and signed, 'It's nice to meet you.'

'Where did you learn to sign?'

"I haven't learned it completely," the boy said. "But when the maids told me you were coming, one of them mentioned you couldn't talk, so I got a tutor to teach me."

'You learned to sign in four days?' Though it had taken Sherlock around the same amount of time to learn, he was a bit surprised his cousin had the motivation to do so, given his age.

He shrugged. "I already speak three languages, learning another one isn't that hard."

Sherlock nodded. Most people took him to be the sort of person who disliked children. But he had nothing against them. They were often more honest than adults, and more inclined to use their brains. Still, he wasn't exactly sure what to do with him.

The staff had been taking care of him since his parents' death (of which he was unaware) so he supposed he wouldn't have to do much.

'I'll be looking after things while your parents are away.'

Dennison gave a small nod and a big smile. “I know,” he said. “You're going to teach me to play the violin.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Am I?' He wasn't a very teacherly person. Either he'd get bored or the student would get bored or they'd both get bored and it wasn't really a good experience for anyone.

Another nod. 

One of the staff appeared and told them dinner was ready whenever they wanted to eat before moving down the hall to give Dr. Parson the same message.

“Will you come with me?” Dennison asked. “I can tell you're not hungry, but I like having someone with me when I eat. My parents are away and the staff are too busy...”

He wanted to begin unpacking. He hadn't abandoned his plan of shutting out the world for a few days. But a few more hours of delay wouldn't make that much difference. 'Lead the way.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was just a short transition chapter.
> 
> Later updates will be better, I promise. Also faster since I finally got my lew laptop.


	13. Maybe Then It Would Be Dark Enough.

“John,” Mary said as their date came to an end. He'd walked her home, intending on getting a cab back to Baker Street. But she could tell he wasn't too thrilled to go back to the empty flat. Just that morning Sherlock had left for Norway, and no one knew how long he'd be away. “Why don't you... spend the night here?”

His reply was a silent nod as he followed her inside.

\---

After dinner, Sherlock had gone back to his room. He sat on the edge of his bed in the dark—light off, curtains closed—and tried to come up with any way he could make it darker. There was too much light. Too much artificial light peeking through the cracks in the door frame, too much natural late evening sunlight trickling through the gaps between the curtains.

He closed his eyes, but that seemed to only make it brighter.

But upon opening them again he felt the heaviness from before returning. First in his arms, the added force pulling at his shoulders so that he felt the joints might split. He felt it in his feet as they seemed to lock in place on the floor, morphing into immobile constructs of marble. His head felt so full and dense that he feared his neck just might snap under the pressure. Well, he didn't fear it so much as wonder what it would feel like, what it sound like. Would it actually snap? Or would his spine creak until it popped apart, leaving his head to hang limp. Maybe then it would be dark enough.

His pocket pinged.

He pulled it from his pocket, intent on turning it off so no one could disturb him. But the notification on the screen told him he had a text from John.

'How are you doing?'

Sherlock would have laughed. Instead all he could do was expel a soft puff of breath at the words on the screen. John's concern, no matter what happened or didn't happen between them, never failed to amuse him, to make him feel completely weightless, if a bit confused by the sentiment. Although that confusion was becoming increasingly rarer the more time he spent with John.

He replied, 'I'm fine. You shouldn't be texting me while you're on a date.'

'How do you know I'm on a date?'

'Lucky guess.'

'You don't guess.'

Sherlock decided not to reply. It was obvious, it would have been obvious to anyone, so surely John must have worked out that of course he was on a date because he'd needed comfort from someone close and familiar right after his “best friend” left him (for a second time), so why would he press Sherlock to tell them something they both new?

Easy. More familiarity. But Sherlock couldn't give him that.

Another text came through. 'Sherlock?'

Again he ignored it. He switched the phone off and placed it on the table by his bed before any more messages could be received.

He breathed out a shaky breath and looked at his arm. Through the sleeve of his shirt he could see the edges of the bandage he'd kept wrapped around it. He tried to imagine the burning sensation the cut had brought, but he could not recall it well enough. And he tried to put it out of his mind the the feeling haunted him, begging to be relived.

With what energy he had left he stood and walked to the mountain of boxes at the other side of the room. He dug through a few, looking for one item in particular. Something he'd asked his brother to send him. He'd refused, of course, but the tone he'd used gave him away in an instant.

It didn't take him long to find the carton of cigarettes. He pulled out a box and a packet of matches and again took his seat at the edge of his bed.

Lighting the cig was so easy it may have been what he was born to do. The taste was a bit off, not his usual brand, but the drag was long and smooth and while he concentrated every part of his brain on that one action, that one feeling, he could think of nothing else.

He was on his fourth when there was a knock at his door.

Not the light knock of a child, or the timid knock of the staff. It was Parson, and he did not want to look at him just now.

“Sherlock.” The man spoke his name with such ease, such openness. Sherlock hated it. “One of the maids said she smelled smoke coming from your room. I'm coming in.” He opened the door, and Sherlock mentally chastised himself for not locking it.

He closed the door behind him without bothering to turn the lights on. He could see just fine by the window light. He approached Sherlock and plucked the cigarette from between his fingers, submerging it in the glass of water Sherlock had been using in the absence of an actual ashtray.

“You're not supposed to smoke inside. Besides,” he placed a light kiss on Sherlock's knuckles, “It's bad for your health. As your doctor I cannot recommend you continue this habit.” He moved closer and placed another kiss on Sherlock's neck, this time not so light. "Want me to keep your mind off it for a while?"

Sherlock moved further back onto the bed, using one hand to help himself balance and clasping the other onto Parson's waist so their bodies wouldn't separate while he found a comfortable position.

\---

After they finished, Parson quickly fell asleep.

Sherlock had no desire to spend any more time in his presence, so he found his discarded clothes and put them on before leaving his room in search of somewhere quiet. And dark.

He found the garden, stepping through the glass sliding door and into the cool night air, and spotted a small figure sitting on one of the stone benches.

Dennison turned and gave him a half-smile before resettling his gaze on the sky.

There was another bench across from Dennison's, but Sherlock decided to sit next to him.

“Did you come out here to look at the stars?” Dennison asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth but stopped himself before he actually tried to make any noise. Why could he not remember hands not lips? He shook his head.

“Oh. That's why I came out here. I like them.”

Sherlock looked up. He did sometimes like to look at them. He thought they were useless and refused to learn about them, but that didn't mean he didn't like the way they looked. The way they twinkled and went on doing their thing without worrying about what anyone thought of them.

'Shouldn't you be in bed?' he signed.

“No. Tonight's not a sleeping night.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, making him giggle. The brow fell then, allowing for his face to contort into one of confusion.

“Sometimes I just don't sleep.”

'I have a similar problem.'

“What do you do when you can't sleep?”

'Violin.'

Dennison's eyes lit up. “Will you play for me?”

Sherlock wasn't exactly in a mood to play, unless squeaking and screeching would count as playing. But he didn't have much else to do, and the stars were reminding him of things he'd been trying to forget all night. 'Go up to your bedroom, I'll be there in a few minutes.'

The boy nodded and ran back inside.

In the quiet Sherlock tried to gather his thoughts, to fill his head with music rather than the shadows that currently resided there.


	14. What Did You Tell Him About This.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been abnormally long for this update to come. The switch from old laptop to new involved all kinds of file conversions (I'd used Pages on my Mac, and now I'm using LibreOffice on Ubuntu) and lots of things got messed up in my outline.
> 
> But it's here now!

It was almost a week before both Sherlock and John found time in their schedule to video chat.

When John saw his friend's face materialise on the screen, he felt relief flood through him. All those minutes, days, hours without seeing for himself that Sherlock was alright. The tense muscles and the restless nights. But seeing his face, with a bit of a smile on it at that, finally allowed him to relax.

“It's good to see you,” he said, not sure how to start the conversation. He'd been the one to insist on the video call, but Sherlock had gone along with it with little hesitation, so he knew they both needed this.

Using the text-chat function to reply, Sherlock typed, 'It's always good to see me.'

John rolled his eyes, relaxing into the almost normal exchange. “What have you been up to? Lots of exciting crimes in Norway?”

Sherlock crinkled his lips. 'I wouldn't know.'

“Sorry—”

'It's fine,' Sherlock assured him, face returning to one of near-fondness. 'My cousin's been keeping me company. I'm teaching him the violin.'

“Your cousin? You're willingly spending time with a member of your family?”

Sherlock cracked a slight smile. 'He's six.'

“Ah.” John didn't have to know any more. Sherlock's comfort around children would have surprised most people, but not John. He knew why Sherlock had his reservations around them, of course. Despite his normal lack of concern for how people see him, he does know most people see him as a threat, especially to youth. Neither of them knew why, really, but Sherlock tended to keep his distance from them and John never said anything about it. “That's nice. His parents giving you any trouble?”

'They are the trouble.' Sherlock sent the message, wondering if he should be telling John any of this. The whole point of his being in Norway was to put distance between them, after all. 'They're the reason I'm here. They're dead.'

It took a few seconds for John to respond. And when he did, all he could manage was a soft, sad, “Oh.”

'He doesn't know. Honestly I'm not sure what Mycroft expects me to do here; his people are looking into their murders and there are lawyers handling everything else.'

“Maybe he just thought a change of scenery would do you some good.”

'Maybe.'

They sat in silence for a moment. John took the time to look Sherlock over. The picture was jumpy and a bit grainy but he could see Sherlock looked more rested.

“Have you been sleeping?”

And the look of scorn was back. Sherlock probably would have growled, if he could. 'Yes. Parson gave me pills to help me sleep.'

“He got you to take a sleeping med?”

'No, Dennison did.'

“Dennison?”

'My cousin.'

John couldn't help but chuckle. “How'd he do it?”

Sherlock's gaze momentarily migrated from the picture on the screen to the cracked-open door. 'Ask him yourself, he's coming to check up on me.'

A second later, the boy appeared, giving two little knocks on the door. “Sherlock, I'm coming in,” he announced before opening the door enough to get through. That was the general rule about his bedroom; if the door was open, you were allowed to come in. “Are you talking to Dr. Watson?”

“You told him about me?”

Sherlock lowered his brow at him, saying, _of course I told him about you._

“Dr. Watson, we've been reading your blog!” Dennison said, voice high with excitement as he stood next to Sherlock and waved at the screen. “Did you two really do all those things?”

“Yeah, of course we did,” he answered. “And you can call me John, if you like.”

Sherlock typed a short addition. 'I edit out the more unsavory bits for him.' 

“All those adventures, it's amazing!”

“I hear you're pretty amazing yourself,” John said. “Got Sherlock to take his sleeping pills?”

Dennison nodded. “I got him to eat too.”

John looked to Sherlock for confirmation. Sherlock just blinked the question away, and John smiled. “Good for you. You'll have to tell me your secret, I need some new tricks.”

“Alright,” Dennison said sweetly. “Sherlock, Dr. Parson said it's time to change your bandage.”

John noticed Sherlock's change in posture right away. He went stiff and looked away from both of them. “Bandage?”

Sherlock reached out to type, but Dennison spoke.

“Sherlock had an accident,” he explained. “He broke a mirror, and got his arm all cut up.”

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock was stunned still at Dennison's words. He managed to type, 'We'll have to continue this conversation another time, John. I have to have a word with Parson.'

\---

The text came through and then he screen went dark, as Sherlock must have shut his laptop rather than properly disconnect the call.

He stared at the computer for a minute, wondering what was wrong. He didn't find it hard to believe Sherlock had gotten hurt, with his balance as of late. But Sherlock had had a bandage on his arm the last night he spent in London, and there was certainly no broken mirror in 221B.

\---

The edges of Sherlock's vision were tinged red as he made the walk to Dr. Parson's room. Dennison followed behind him, worried that something was wrong.

“Sherlock?”

They were by Parson's door, and Sherlock took a deep breath, composing his face. He knelt down and tried to look as not-angry as possible. It wasn't Dennison he was furious with, after all.

'I need to have a conversation with him. Will you wait for me outside? I want to take a walk.'

Dennison didn't look so sure, but something in Sherlock's eyes told him he needed him to do this. “Okay.” He walked back through the long hallway and disappeared around a corner.

Sherlock waited for him to be gone before shoving Parson's door open and stepping inside.

Dr. Parson looked up from the desk he sat at. “You didn't knock.”

Sherlock glared at him, shutting the door behind him. 'What did you say to my cousin?'

“What do you mean? We don't really talk that much.”

'About this.' Sherlock held up the arm with the bandage wound around it. 'What did you tell him about this.'

“Oh.” Parson remembered. “He asked me about it, so I told him you broke a mirror and got hurt.”

Sherlock stepped close, looming above him. 'Don't you ever dare to lie to him again. He is my responsibility, and I will not allow anyone to tell him lies.'

Parson stood, pushing the chair away from him with his movement. “And what would you have me tell him, Sherlock?” he asked, almost pleading. “You want me to tell a six-year-old that you've been slicing your own arm open two or three times every night?”

'He doesn't have to know that, but it's not your place to speak to him about it at all, much less to lie to him about it. If he asks about anything like that again, you send him to me. Do you understand?'

“No, actually. I really don't think you're the best person to decide what is or isn't good for a child.”

'It doesn't matter what you think. I am his temporary guardian, not you. You are my employee. Do as you're told.'

Dr. Parson frowned. "There's no need for the drama, Sherlock. But fine, you're right, you're his guardian and I'll direct all his questions to you. But, if you do scar him for life, I won't be the one to deal with it.”

Sherlock left before Parson finished his pathetic threat, slamming the door behind him.

\---

John had sent Sherlock a text shortly after their chat was cut off. 'Is something wrong?' it said.

Every minute that Sherlock didn't reply, John's worry grew. But he tried to keep himself calm, reminding himself that Sherlock did say something about having to have a conversation, maybe he was too busy to reply.

He did get a reply, finally, a few minutes later. 'We'll talk about it later. Tonight, if you're free for another chat.'

He replied with a request to let him know what time.

\---

Dennison was waiting for him in the garden, sitting on the bench they often took to after dinner. He looked up when he heard Sherlock come outside.

“Is Dr. Parson coming with us?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You're not supposed to leave the house without him.”

'I need to be as far away from him as possible right now,' he signed to the boy. 'We won't go far. If something happens, you can run back and get him.'

“Okay,” Dennison stood and grabbed Sherlock's hand as they started walking along the path.

They left the small garden and walked the grounds a bit, stopping when they came to the little pond shaded by a big, swoopy tree.

Sherlock sat in the grass, knees at his chest as he stared at the water.

Dennison copied his pose.

“Did Dr. Parson do something bad?”

Sherlock looked over at him.

“You seemed really angry before.”

'I was. Yes, he did something bad.'

“Did he hurt you?”

Sherlock shook his head and shifted his body so he faced Dennison. 'He told you something that wasn't true. And I don't want you to be lied to. I want you to always be able to trust me.'

“What did he lie about?”

'I didn't break a mirror,' Sherlock signed, but wondered where he would go from there. He was upset that Parson lied to Dennison, especially since they hadn't discussed it at all, but he did know why he did it. It was logical, even if he did think it was wrong. What child needs to know such gruesome things? But, Sherlock was learning, lies could be just as bad. 'It wasn't an accident.'

“I don't understand.”

'I don't either, most of the time,' Sherlock admitted.

Dennison just continued to look at him, confusion all over his face.

'I did it to myself, and I'm sorry I have to tell you.

“But why?”

'I don't know. I seem to know, while it's happening, but once it's over I forget. And it's not good, do you understand? I'm not good, and this isn't something people should do. Dr. Parson had good intentions with what he said but I cannot lie anymore.'

Dennison looked away, face scrunched up in thought. Sherlock felt terrible. He shouldn't be saying this to him. And why was it so important that he trust Sherlock anyway? Soon Mycroft would find suitable foster parents, and Sherlock would go somewhere else. He didn't know where yet, but he wouldn't be here long.

“You're always going to tell me the truth?”

'As best I can.'

He nodded, thinking some more. “Why have my parents been gone so long?”

\---

John had decided to spend the night at Mary's again that night. He made sure to bring his laptop with him, so he'd have it when Sherlock was ready to talk.

He felt a bit pathetic, staying at her place. He'd never invited her to stay at Baker Street, but she'd said she understood. She knew he needed time to adjust.

\---

Sherlock closed his eyes. He knew that question had to come eventually. Why couldn't someone had told him right away what had happened. Why let him believe he would ever see them again? He was going to find out someday, and now Sherlock had to be the one to tell him.

“You can't just tell me they're away, that's what everyone keeps telling me. But no one tells me where they are, or when they're coming back. I know they do secret things that they can't tell anyone, but they've never been gone this long.”

There was a quiver to his voice. One didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know what it meant. He already suspected, had already prepared himself for the worst. And why shouldn't he, with no one telling him anything?

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock started. And he was. He was so sorry that this had to happen to him. 'They're not coming back this time.'

Dennison nodded as tears fell from his eyes. He didn't scream, he barely made any noise much more than a sniff or a soft hiccough.

When he didn't stop, Sherlock did the only thing he could; he pulled him into his lap and let the boy cry into his chest. He didn't know if it would help, but he did remember no one doing it for him when he'd been told of his own father's death. He hadn't cried, much, but only because he'd learned by that time that it was unbecoming.

He let Dennison cry until he couldn't anymore.

“I ruined your shirt,” he squeaked when he finally tried to speak.

Sherlock just shook his head, rubbing Dennison's back.

“I'm tired.”

With that cue, Sherlock managed to stand without releasing Dennison from his hold. He carried him back into the house and up to his bedroom. He put him down on the little bed and asked if he needed anything.

“Will you stay with me?”

Already planning on it, Sherlock sat in the reading chair next to the bed. He watched him cry some more before he finally fell asleep.

And he continued to watch over him through the night.


	15. The Phrase Gets Stuck In My Head.

Since he hadn't taken the sleeping pills that night, it wasn't difficult to stay up while he watched Dennison sleep.

He hadn't been much older when his father died, just by a few months. But even today he still had his mother. He never really got on with any of his family, but he was closest to his parents when he was little. They were away a lot, much like Dennison's, and he was usually left in Mycroft's care but when they were home they were always spending time with him.

And he hoped whoever would become his cousin's new parents would be good to him.

He spent most of the time wishing he could talk to John. Not just type at him, but _talk_ to him. Not being able to talk wasn't just not having a voice. He couldn't think without talking. There were times when he needed absolute silence and there were times where he needed to talk everything out and not being able to do that left parts of his brain untouched for fear of overworking them. If he could talk, he could come up with better solutions to his problems.

Occasionally his mind drifted to things he could do with Dennison to make him feel better. Well, nothing would make him feel better for a while, but Sherlock didn't want him to think he was ever going to be alone.

The violin lessons were nice. Sherlock had Mycroft send over the size ¼ violin he'd used at that age for him to practice with. He liked teaching him, even if Dennison wasn't exactly a natural. He was still getting the hang of reading music to begin with, and occasionally became frustrated with himself, but he was stubborn and Sherlock was just as much so.

He thought maybe they could start their own little patch of a garden. The staff were maintaining the ornate flowers and shrubs but it could be nice for him to have something all his own.

Around midnight he remembered he'd planned on chatting with John again that night. He thought about going to get his computer, but didn't want to leave and have Dennison wake in his absence, not after he'd told him he could trust him.

And he didn't even know if John was awake, so he sent a text.

\---

John was awake, in fact. The chirp of his phone distracted him, and he pulled his lips away from Mary's.

“Ignore it,” she said softly, pulling him back.

He tried to, focusing on her taste, mildly sweet and a bit earthy. “I'm sorry, I have to check it,” he said as he pulled away again. “It might be Sherlock.”

“Yes, okay,” she let go of him and stood from the sofa. “I'm going to take a shower.”

“I'm sorry,” he called again after her before looking at the phone.

'Are you awake?' It was Sherlock.

He quickly replied, 'Yes. Are you alright?'

'Fine.'

'You didn't seem fine, before. Should I get my computer?'

'No, mine is in my room, and I can't leave Dennison just now.'

'Did something happen?'

It took a few minutes for the next text to come. 'I had to tell him about his parents.'

'I see. Not taking it well?'

'He'd already figured it out. He did cry though, and then I put him to bed.'

'Not doing any experiments on him while he sleeps, I hope.'

'No, I'm being good. Just watching.'

John laughed though his nose as he remembers the experiments Sherlock used to do on him. And all the times he woke to find him there, just watching, no experiment in sight. 'Why are you so fascinated by people sleeping?'

'Everyone is usually peaceful when asleep. I like seeing it. And it's the only peace anyone gets if I'm around.'

'That's not exactly true.'

No more texts came after that. John waited up for an hour, even after Mary had gone to sleep, before he decided to put the phone down and go to bed himself.

\---

Dennison didn't wake up at all in the night. He turned over a few times, but he stayed asleep until one of the staff knocked and announced breakfast was ready.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then looked over to where Sherlock sat. “Good morning.”

Sherlock gave a small nod. 'Hungry?'

“Yeah.”

'Let's go eat, then,” Sherlock signed and stood.

Dennison didn't stand, but instead stuck his arms out.

Somehow Sherlock knew what he was asking and bent down to pick him up, carrying him like he had last evening. It might not have been the safest idea, since he never knew when the dizziness would hit, but he told himself that it could be fine as long as he was very careful.

When they got down to breakfast, he set Dennison down and took a seat at the table, only to have him climb into his lap anyway.

Sherlock was a bit surprised, but didn't push him away. Two plates of food were set in front of them and Dennison started to eat right away, but Sherlock waited, hoping Dennison wouldn't notice.

He did. When he saw Sherlock had hardly even looked at the food, he stopped eating and crossed his arms, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down at him, trying to look like he wasn't going to fall for it this time. But he knew Dennison wouldn't eat unless he did, so he picked up a piece of toast, took a bite, and looked back at him to see if that was acceptable.

Dennison smiled and started eating again.

They were halfway through their meals when Dr. Parson arrived. He sat at his normal spot at the other end of the table with his usual professional smile on his face.

The arm Sherlock had around Dennison's waist to keep him balanced tightened around him.

“Morning,” he said as his food was brought to him. "Sherlock, I'm sorry about yesterday. You were right and I shouldn't have made something up just because I didn't know what to say."

Sherlock nodded. 

Dennison took another bite and pushed his plate away. “I'm done. You can be done too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wasted no time in standing away from the table. He didn't bother putting Dennison down, just held him on his hip as he walked out of the room.

“What are we doing today?” Dennison asked when Sherlock set him down in the hall.

'I'm going to look over some more case files. We can have a violin lesson if you want.”

“Okay. Can I read in your room with you?”

'Of course.' Sherlock really doesn't know why a kid would want to spend this much time with him, but he thought it was at least good that he wasn't refusing to see anyone. This way he could keep an eye on him.

Sherlock went into his own room while Dennison went into his to get his books. He opened some of the files on his desk, ready to sit in his chair and get to work. But when Dennison came in, he sat on the floor at the foot of Sherlock's bed, using it as a backrest.

So Sherlock grabbed the files and his laptop and sat next to him. He pretended not to notice when Dennison scooted closer before opening his book.

He set the files around him, opening his laptop to begin his research.

They spent a long time in silence, the only noise being a page flip or fingers clicking away at the laptop.

Dennison seemed completely focused, but Sherlock's mind kept wandering. These were all cold cases, all boring murders that had sat stagnant for years since before he even started consulting with the police. Not particularly interesting, so he wasn't too frustrated when he found his thoughts straying.

He wondered if John would end up with Mary permanently. He didn't really know much about her, but she seemed good. A teacher. Smart, compassionate. Not necessarily better than the others, but better than Sherlock.

He was further distracted when Dennison decided to speak. “What did you mean yesterday? When you said you weren't good.”

'I'm not well.'

“Like you're sick?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Why didn't you say that, then? Why say 'not good' instead of 'sick'?”

'The phrase gets stuck in my head.'

“Oh. Well, I think you're good. You used to save people, or find things that were stolen. That's good.”

Sherlock stared at him. His first instinct was to correct him, to tell him that those weren't all that made a person good or bad. But he didn't want to explain any of the bad things he'd done, not unless he absolutely had to. So he just went back to work.

\---

John got home from work a bit early that day. He'd been given the evening off, and though he initially protested, he was glad for it. He hadn't been sleeping very well the past few days, but hoped that pattern would break soon.

After making himself a cup of tea and sitting on the sofa to unwind a bit, he opened his laptop. He wasn't really sure what he'd planned on doing on it, but as soon as the screen woke up, the chat window from the last time he'd used it was displayed. And Sherlock was online. So he sent him a call.

\---

The artificial sound of a phone ringing on his computer managed to startle Sherlock, since the room had been practically silent all morning.

He considered ignoring the call, but he didn't really have the strength.

John's face flickered onto the screen. “Hey,” he greeted.

Sherlock waved.

Dennison looked up and also waved. “Hi, John!”

“What are you two up to, then?”

“I'm reading, and Sherlock is saving the world.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and typed, 'It's just cold cases.'

“Still important, though,” John argued. “Any news on when you'll be home?”

“You're leaving?” Dennison asked, looking like he might cry again.

'Not for a while, but yes, I will leave eventually,' Sherlock signed.

“I'm going with you, right?”

Sherlock was stunned by the question, completely unsure what to say.

John tried to supply an answer. “You should definitely come. I'd love to meet you, and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind, Sherlock.”

“I'll go pack.” Dennison stood and ran to his room.

Sherlock was caught between the urge to panic and the urge to laugh. Even if he did take him to London, it wouldn't be at that very moment.

'Why did you say that?' Sherlock typed.

“That boy adores you.”

'I don't understand why.'

“You don't? Really? How much time do you spend together?”

Sherlock thought. 'He rarely lets me out of his sight. Especially since last night.'

“Have you ever pushed him away?”

'Why would I? He doesn't bother me.'

“And how many people are there on this planet that don't bother you? Sherlock, I am not going to let you separate yourself from him. I don't know why you're running away from me, but I won't let you run from him too. I am so glad that he exists because with the way you were... I don't know if you'd still be here without him to give you a reason to be.”

'I don't know what you mean.'

“Can I see your arm, then?”

Sherlock paled a bit, and shook his head.

“Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out eventually, Sherlock? I saw the bandage that night... I didn't know what it was then but when Dennison mentioned the mirror and you got upset...When's the last time you did it?”

'Two nights ago.'

“Does Parson know about it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Has he done anything to try and help you?” Silence. “I think you need to find another doctor. You won't let me be there for you, you at least need a competent professional. He's not either one if he hasn't even tried to...” he trailed off, seeing the look on Sherlock's face. “Has he done something to you?”

'No.'

“Don't fucking lie to me, Sherlock.”

'He hasn't done anything that I didn't want.'

“Oh god. You're sleeping with him?”

'We are not discussing this with my cousin just across the hall.'

“That bastard. You're vulnerable, he shouldn't be...”

'Please stop. If you insist on talking about this, we cannot do it now.'

Dennison walked into the room carrying two small suitcases. “I'm ready.”

John chuckled. “You won't be coming to visit for a while.”

He pouted, but nodded in understanding. “We will go, though, right?”

'We'll discuss it,' Sherlock signed.

“Okay, then I'll stay packed.”

Sherlock typed, 'I'll text you after he goes to bed.'

John nodded, and they both signed out.


	16. Promise Me You're Not Lying To Me Right Now.

Sherlock gave Dennison a long violin lesson after the call with John. He'd had the staff bring food to them, as he figured neither of them were really up to stopping.

It was difficult to teach without talking, though he supposed that was some of what kept him interested in it. It was one of the few activities he enjoyed having to work through without a voice. He couldn't talk while showing the different finger positions, certainly couldn't sign while his hands were on his or Dennison's violin.

But Dennison didn't have much trouble catching on to what Sherlock was trying to explain. What he lacked in musical skill he made up for in communicating, something Sherlock had always had trouble with.

When Dennison's movements became slower and sloppy, Sherlock suggested they stop for the evening.

“But I've almost got it,” he pleaded through a yawn.

Sherlock grabbed the instrument from him with little resistance. 'You're tired. You don't have to go to sleep, but you're not going to learn anything more in this state.'

The boy crossed his arms and pouted.

Sherlock pouted right back at him, mirroring his indignant stance.

They stayed locked in a staring competition, pouty faces slipping into intense, unblinking glares, until Dennison finally gave up and started to giggle.

“You're funny,” he told Sherlock through his laughter.

Sherlock didn't know what to think of that. He was, as he'd been told constantly, definitely not funny. But he _had_ made him laugh, so he allowed a small smile to show on his face, showing his satisfaction.

“So what should we do now?”

'What do you want to do?'

“Can we go outside again?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to think of anything else. He wasn't so surprised this time when Dennison grabbed his hand as they walked outside.

They made it just through the garden when Dennison stopped and laid down on the grass.

Sherlock sat next to him.

“Come on, Sherlock, look at the sky. It's so pretty.”

He breathed a silent sigh and laid back, letting his eyes take in all the blues and oranges above them.

Dennison continued to talk. “Don't you just love all the colors? I know it's hard for you to answer laying down, but I guess you never really stopped to look at it.”

That wasn't entirely true. In his time away he'd been forced to sleep outside at all hours of the day. Sometimes out in the open was the safest place to hide, especially when everyone who had a clue that he was alive expected him to infiltrate tunnels, obscure hotels, and abandoned buildings. Though it was true he never did it specifically to look at the sky.

“But I think the sky is really nice. Especially when there are clouds, because clouds are fun to watch. You can see shapes and things. It's great when it's windy, too because then it looks like the clouds are racing...”

Dennison kept talking, and Sherlock paid attention to everything he said about the clouds.

Eventually the clouds became darker and it started to rain.

Sherlock stood up, ready to take him inside before the drizzle turned into a downpour, but Dennison got up and started jumping in the muddy puddles that had begun to form.

“I love rain!” he shouted and started to run around the yard. He didn't go far, mostly opting to run himself in circles, waving his hands above his head.

Sherlock watched. His clothes were almost soaked through, his hair flat and dripping. But the rain was uncharacteristically warm, and he didn't want to ruin the kid's fun.

And as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped.

“No,” Dennison said with a frown.

Sherlock was compelled to laugh. But instead he walked over to him and scooped him up, smiling at the look of surprise on the boy's face. He carried him inside, focusing on keeping his balance.

He set Dennison down in his bedroom, and pulled some night clothes out of the dresser. 'Dry off and get changed, then we can have some dinner.'

“Okay.”

Sherlock went back to his own room and followed his own instructions. He dried his hair with a towel, allowing the loose curls to reform themselves. He smoothed the frizz on top with a comb.

Just as he was buttoning up his fresh shirt, there was a knock.

He opened the door, glad to see Dennison and not Parson just yet.

But he wore a chastising frown at Dennison's still-dripping hair. He pulled his discarded towel off his bed and stooped down to dry the curly, golden locks. Dennison's giggles were muffled by the fabric.

When Sherlock finished, he left the towel draped over Dennison's head.

He shook it off, letting it fall on the floor. Then he surged forward and hugged Sherlock, locking his arms tightly around the man's neck.

Sherlock stilled, the sudden contact causing him to panic. His ears buzzed and his vision whitened out for just a second, before he remembered where he was, focusing on the arms keeping him grounded.

He hugged Dennison, feeling relieved but still, somehow, like he was in danger.

Dennison pulled away smiling, but became more serious when he saw the absent look on Sherlock's face. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock blinked, refocusing his vision. 'You startled me. I was a bit dizzy, but I'm fine now,' he signed in response.

“You should eat. Normally I wouldn't make you, since you ate breakfast, but if you're dizzy, I think you should.”

Sherlock nodded. Really, there was no point in arguing. 

\---

After dinner, Dennison sat on Sherlock's bed playing with some plastic peopple while Sherlock sat beside him working on his laptop. He thought it was about time to put Dennison to bed when he got a text.

'Don't think I've forgotten about our talk.' It was from John.

Sherlock responded, 'I know you haven't. I was waiting until Dennison went to bed.'

'Shouldn't he be in bed already at this time?'

“Are you talking to John?” Dennison asked, looking at the phone.

Sherlock nodded.

“Tell him I say hello.”

Sherlock typed out another text. 'Yes, he probably should. He says hello, by the way.'

Dennison yawned.

'Tired?' Sherlock signed.

“Yeah. Is it okay if I stay here tonight? You can't sleep in my chair and I don't want to be alone.” He didn't wait for an answer, instead just sliding right under the covers after placing his toys on the floor.

Sherlock thought he should probably insist on having him go to his own room. But he didn't want to.

Another text came from John. 'He's a sweet kid.'

'He is.' Sherlock replied.

'So. Tell me why I shouldn't report Parson for inappropriate conduct.'

'Because I'm not officially his patient, and I initiated our behavior in the first place.'

\---

John sat in his chair in 221B. It was the first night he'd spent away from Mary. He appreciated everything she did for him, and her patience. But he felt like he needed a night to himself.

The text from Sherlock surprised him, and unsettled him in a way that was even more surprising.

'I didn't know you even had any interest in sex.'

A few minutes went by and John thought Sherlock was ignoring him. He felt a bit guilty about saying that so bluntly, but it was something Sherlock made clear to everyone who showed any bit of interest.

But a reply did eventually come.

'I normally don't.'

John's face tightened. 'Oh. What's different? Do you have feelings for him? Because that would be a different story. It's still unethical, but different.'

'No. I don't have feelings for him.'

'Then I don't understand.'

Another few minutes ticked away before he got Sherlock's reply. 'While I was away I was often injured, or tortured. When Parson was brought in to treat me he was so gentle. I didn't know I craved a kinder touch until he gave it to me. He's just a convenience.'

'I see.'

'I did put a stop to it a while ago, but after I broke my ankle it started again.'

John sighed. He felt an ache in his stomach, and noticed an acidic taste in the back of his throat. 'He's taking advantage of you.'

'I had considered that. But I think he has developed an emotional attachment to me, so I am also taking advantage of him.'

'I don't like it.'

'It's not your decision. I'm an adult.'

'Yes, but are you emotionally stable enough to really know what you're doing?'

'Probably not.'

The honest admission caught John off guard. He was used to Sherlock being more honest with him than anyone else but with the way he'd been pulling away recently, he was never sure what to expect.

'And the cutting? Are you still doing it?'

'I haven't tonight.'

'Were you planning on it?'

'Probably, if I were alone.'

 _Thank god for Dennison_ , John thought as he typed his next text. 'Your cousin is smart. He's attached to you because you're there for him in a time of crisis, but I think he's watching over you too. And I'm glad, since I can't be there. But I don't know how much longer I can handle you being away. When are you coming home?'

'Not for a while, and when I do it'll only be for a visit.'

'Why?'

'There are things I need to do.'

'Moriarty?'

'No, I told you that was all taken care of.'

John was getting frustrated. 'Then what? What do need to do without me? Why are you running from me? Whatever it is, I can help you. I want to help you, Sherlock.'

'I don't need your help. I'm just trying to do the right thing, for once.'

'By abandoning your friend?'

'I did it before.'

'Yeah, and it was awful. But you came back. The way you're talking, it sounds like you won't this time and there is only one thing you don't come back from and I swear to god if you do that to me again I will break.'

'I'm not planning anything so drastic.'

'Promise me you're not lying to me right now.'

'I promise, John.'

John tried to feel relieved. But at this moment he just didn't know if he could trust that promise. He may not have anything planned at the moment, but the future is invisible to all. 'I want you to text me every day until you come home. And I'd like to keep doing the video calls. You can talk to me, and I want to be here for you. We've been looking out for each other since day one, and that's not going to change.'

'I don't want it to. I am looking out for you.'

'What danger am I in that you can't tell me about if Moriarty is gone?'

'I told you when I came back.'

'You are not a danger to me. I won't ever believe that.' And if he were a threat to John, his best friend, then wouldn't he be a danger to a child he just met? He didn't say that, though, for fear of him trying to push Dennison away as well.

'How can you trust me after what I put you through?'

'I already said why. You came back. And you're my friend, and I know why you left. And now, I have to trust that you'll make better decisions in the future, that you've learned from your mistakes. What kind of friend would I be if I just gave up on you?'

'I don't know if you have it in you to give up on anyone.'

John managed to smile a bit at that. At least Sherlock wasn't arguing with him. 'Now you're getting it. Look, I think we're both tired, so let's both get some sleep, and I'll talk to you tomorrow.'

'Okay. Goodnight, John.'

'Goodnight.'

Even though he knew the conversation was over, John waited a few minutes to see if any more texts came. He didn't know what kind of text he was expecting. A deep, emotional outpouring? A cry for help? Even with Sherlock acting strange, he didn't think either of those were realistic.

So after a half hour of no texts, John finally accepted it and went to bed.

\---

“Ah, John,” Mycroft greeted as John strode into his office. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Why did you send him to Norway.”

Mycroft didn't miss a beat. “Family business.”

“Yeah, but why _him_? Couldn't you have gone? Or surely there are other Homles family members available?”

“I only did what Sherlock asked. He asked for some time to gather his thoughts, which I provided.”

“Mycroft,” John said with a glare, “I don't know if you realise this, but your brother is depressed.”

Mycroft momentarily let his business face dip into a frown. “I'm sure hes not—”

“No,” John interrupted, “he is. He's depressed, and he doesn't know what's happening to him. I've seen it before. My sister...” he paused to clear his throat. “I know the signs, Mycroft. I saw it before he left and I know I shouldn't have let him leave but the last thing you want to do for someone who feels that way is take away their power. I was helpless and he left and now he doesn't want to come back.”

“I was unaware of that decision,” Mycroft admitted.

“Sherlock, no matter how well he's adapting, is disabled now,” John explained, lowering his voice to a more acceptable level. “He needs people to support him. He needs me and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Greg. Not all at the same time, obviously, we don't want to overwhelm him. But he even needs you because however misguided you seem to be it's obvious you do love him. He needs to come _home_.”

“I'll have a talk with him.”

“Thank you. And get him a new doctor.”

Mycroft's look grew dark. “I have tried. He won't allow it.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How long have you known he's been sleeping with him?”

“Since it started.”

“And you didn't stop it?”

“I couldn't. Though he can be extremely childish he is a grown man and can sleep with whomever he likes. As hard as I try to protect him, I cannot do everything for him.”

“You don't need to protect him, you just need to be there. He needs to feel that he can ask for help. So when you talk to him, make sure he feels like you want to help him and not run his life for him, alright? We have to work together on this if we want him home safe. Hell, I'll settle for safe, as long as I can be sure of it.”

Mycroft nodded. “I do want him home. I'll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I ever mention Dennison is blond? Because Dennison is blond. I should go back earlier in the story and work that in somehow...


	17. You Helped Me Find A War To Fight In.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry it's taken so long for an update. School is done and I'm settled at home for the summer (and all my medical issues seemed to have calmed down for now), so I should be able to update this every few days like I had been before.
> 
> This chapter might seem a bit bleh since I'm just getting into writing this story again but it should get better.

John returned home, remaining as calm as he could along the way so as not to draw attention to himself on the streets. Once he was safely inside 221B, however, he quickly landed a punch on the wall around the door. It wasn't the flat's fault he was upset, but getting Mycroft on the chin wasn't going to help him.

Sherlock wasn't the only one who could spot a lie. John knew Mycroft was far more powerful than he claimed. Easily powerful enough to remove Dr. Parson, at least fire him.

So what was stopping him from ceasing payments to Parson? It wouldn't be because Sherlock requested it; Mycroft rarely sincerely cared what Sherlock wanted or didn't want him to do.

John, fist still balled and pressing against the wall, gave a quiet sigh when he realised. “He doesn't know,” he muttered to himself. “This is an emotional problem, the one thing Mycroft doesn't know how to deal with.”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head, finally disconnecting his fist from the innocent wall. For all his life, Sherlock's defense against emotional pain was to completely deny he had any emotions to begin with. He'd gone through something after which denial was no longer an option; he suffered an injury that rendered him voiceless and fallen in love with someone who didn't love him in return. And now he was alone.

John couldn't watch him believe that that was what he deserved.

\---

The pills Sherlock took to help him sleep were good at getting him through the initial stages. Though he was usually good enough at that himself, able to put himself to sleep as easily as flipping a light switch.

What they weren't so good at was keeping him asleep. If his brain really wanted to keep him conscious, it could push through the barrier the drugs had created.

But it wasn't his brain that woke him in the middle of the night. It was the slight chill, the small shivers running through his body.

He opened his eyes, waiting a few seconds for them to adjust to the dark. When he'd gained enough sight to see faint outlines of the furniture in the room, he sat up.

That was when he noticed he had no blanket covering him. He checked the floor to see if he had kicked it off, as this was not unusual for him since he had a habit of being restless even in sleep. But it wasn't on the floor. Then he remembered Dennison had decided to spend the night with him, so Sherlock looked the other way.

He saw his blanket. It formed a small mountain-like shape, with four fingers and a head of blond curls sticking out the side of it.

Sherlock would have been annoyed had it been anyone else. Well, almost anyone. But the boy who'd stolen his covers wasn't just his cousin anymore. He wasn't just a distant relation, someone he was forced to look after. This kid, this child who'd probably been warned about his strange relative, had welcomed him without a thought. He trusted Sherlock. Dennison was trying to be his friend.

\---

The morning brought another video chat with John. Sherlock hadn't gone back to sleep that night, instead moving to his desk and allowing Dennison to spread out and take up the entire bed. He hadn't expected such a small person to be able to take up so much room.

“Have you been doing your stretches?” John asked, the video feed skipping as he moved himself closer to the screen.

Sherlock shrugged.

John's eyes moved down to Dennison, who was sitting on Sherlock's lap since it made it easier for the camera to catch both of them. “Has he been doing his stretches?”

“Sometimes,” Dennison answered, giving Sherlock a scolding look which was then mimicked by John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and typed, 'The two are you are working together now?'

John laughed. “Of course. We've got to so we can take care of you. Come on, stretch. You have to or you'll get stiff and sore.”

Before Sherlock could refuse, Dennison stuck his arms in the air and shouted, “I'll do them with you! And John can too! We'll do them with you and then you won't feel silly.”

Sherlock glared down at him.

Dennison only glared back, now knowing he'd guessed right.

“Alright,” John agreed. “We can make a routine out of it. Let's get to it.” He scooted back a bit and put his arms up in the starting position. He lifted his eyebrows up, urging Sherlock to follow Dennison's lead.

To his credit, Sherlock did last almost an entire thirty seconds before he gave in.

\---

This routine worked fairly well for Sherlock. The three of them would stretch together every morning and most nights before bed. Combined with keeping in constant contact with John via text and eating at least one meal a day at Dennison's insistence, it gave him an almost tangible handle on his life.

After keeping up with this schedule for only two weeks, he began to feel more in charge, more in control of himself. The rules weren't so strict so that he felt shackled and suffocated, but allowed for him to feel like he could make and execute his own decisions. He'd even stopped taking the sleeping pills, having found that it was easier to slow his brain down when he had someone else's breathing to focus on besides his own.

At this time of night, Dennison was already asleep. In Sherlock's bed, of course. Neither of them had suggested Dennison return to his own room. Sherlock didn't want Dennison to become too dependent on him, but at this point he wasn't quite sure who was more dependent on whom. Nor was he ready to think about it.

Tonight was a night they'd decided to skip the stretching. Dennison had gotten tired out playing in the rain. And it had taken all of Sherlock's willpower to get the boy washed and dressed for bed rather than just letting him go to sleep covered in mud. It wasn't because his pout had any affect on Sherlock, it was simply because he didn't have the patience to deal with a persistent six-year-old.

But Dennison had gotten a bath and was now snoring lightly on his side of the bed. Sherlock sat next to him text chatting with John. They could have used their phones, but typing really was easier on a computer.

'What did you eat today?' John asked, typical of how he liked to start their nightly conversations.

'A few bites of chicken at dinner,' Sherlock replied.

'Staying hydrated?'

'Yes.'

'Any new cuts?'

Sherlock glanced down at his arm. 'Not since you found out.' It was the truth.

'I'm glad, Sherlock,' was John's response. Sherlock wished he could see his face, watch his lips moving and hear the words in John's voice. But he didn't want to wake his cousin. 'Is there anything you want to talk about tonight? We've mostly talked out your frustrations and things. But if there's anything else bothering you, you can talk to me.'

'I know I can.'

'Okay.'

Sherlock waited, thinking out what he wanted to say. He didn't want to disconnect yet, and there was something he wanted to ask. 'My scar.'

'Is it causing you pain?'

'No.' He answered. But it wasn't completely true. 'Not physical pain.'

There was a short pause before John's next message came. 'Ah. Can you describe what it makes you feel?'

\---

John waited for the responses to come. He didn't know when, or even if, Sherlock would ever want to talk about the injury he'd gained as a result of his travels.

But after a minute a reply did come. A series of replies, actually, one following quickly after another.

'I don't know.'  
'I can see it when I glance in a mirror and I don't understand.'  
'I feel anger and regret. Aimed at myself. But it doesn't make sense. I didn't do that to myself. I can look down and see the scars on my arm and not feel anything like that. But the one on my neck was given to me by someone else and yet I feel responsible.'  
'Why?'

John didn't know if Sherlock was asking because there was no one else to ask or because he knew John must have dealt with something similar. He decided it was probably a bit of both before responding. 'It could be that you don't feel like you fought hard enough to stop it. Weren't smart enough to think ahead and prevent it.'

'But I should have been able to fight them off.'

'That kind of thinking only leads down dark roads. It's good to take responsibility for your actions but not to the point where you're blaming yourself for everything bad that happens to you.'

'I don't understand.'

The anger John had been feeling toward Mycroft flared up again. He was the biggest reason Sherlock, one of the most intelligent people on the planet, didn't understand what was happening to him. Because Sherlock did have emotions, he just never learned how to recognise and categorise them. 'You feel responsible. And yes, maybe you could have been more prepared. But that doesn't change the fact that you were a victim.'

'Is that how you felt?'

John bit his lip, until another message came through.

'You can ignore that question. We should talk about something else.'

John answered, 'If you want to change the subject we can, but I don't mind talking about this with you.'

'If you're sure.'

'Of course I am.' Of course he was. He'd only discussed it with his therapist and even then he mostly talked around it. But if there was one person he felt safe enough with bringin up memories he buried down and locked away, it was Sherlock.

'How did you deal with seeing it every day?'

'I reminded myself that I survived. I had extremely limited use of my arm at the time, but I was alive. Honestly I wasn't entirely sure what I was alive for. For a long time I was sure it was a mistake that I pulled through.'

'Why?'

John had a feeling Sherlock pretty much knew what John's responses would be. He'd deduced his whole life after knowing him for less than a minute, how could he not deduce previous emotional states after living with him for two years? But if talking about it helped Sherlock understand, it would be okay. 'I was useless, Sherlock. I was a soldier but I wasn't good enough to fight anymore. I don't believe in destiny; I chose that purpose for myself and losing it meant I lost everything.'

'Yes.'

'That's how you feel?'

'I'm a detective. What am I good for if I can't solve crimes?'

John sighed, leaning back in his chair, wondering what Sherlock's face must look like as he admitted these things to him. Sherlock had said his reason for text chatting was Dennison being sound asleep beside him, but they'd video chatted quietly plenty of times, so now he was wondering if there was another reason. 'You can still be a detective. Not just cold cases, but out in the field, chasing criminals. We can figure out a way. Or you may find something new you want to pursue. Either way, you're my friend and I'll be with you to help you figure it out. You helped me find a war to fight in. I'll find you a case to solve.'

'I can't do it without a voice. It's not fun when no one can understand me.'

'We'll figure it out.'

'You're still waiting for me to come home.'

John nodded to himself. He hadn't brought it up because he didn't want to upset Sherlock when he'd been doing so well. 'Yes. And you did promise to bring Dennison to London.'

'Maybe a visit would be beneficial.'

'You can come anytime.'

'We'll discuss it more another time.'

'Getting tired?' John asked, glancing at his clock. It was long past when Sherlock would normally be asleep.

'No.'

'Goodnight, Sherlock. I'll see you in the morning.'


	18. Nothing.

In the morning, after the usual ritual of having breakfast and stretching with John and Dennison, Sherlock experienced his first day away from his cousin since coming to Norway.

The children of the neighboring estates had come around asking Dennison to come out and play games with them. Although the idea of being alone did not appeal to him, he insisted that the boy should go out if he wanted to.

Thirteen minutes passed before he decided to text John. However, just as he was about to begin typing, a text came from the very man he wanted to talk to.

'Are you busy?'

'I was about to ask you the same thing.' Sherlock wondered if he'd responded too quickly.

'I've got some news. But it can wait if you need to talk.'

'It's nothing urgent.'

'Ok.'

John's hesitation made Sherlock curious. He began to wonder if the news was good or bad; judging tone through texts can be difficult. 'Your news?'

'It's Mary...'

\---

John was finding it difficult to actually type out the words he needed. Probably because he wasn't entirely sure how he was feeling about his news himself, but anyone in this situation might react similarly. 'She's pregnant.' He sent the text, feeling a tingle in his fingertips as he tapped the buttons. Then he sent another. 'Well, she might be. We have an appointment soon.'

He waited a few minutes. He didn't know how he expected Sherlock to reply, but he didn't expect him to simply _not_.

'Sherlock?'

'Congratulations.'

'Thanks.' John sent the text, but wasn't exactly sure he wanted to be congratulated. 'So, what did you want to talk about?'

'Nothing. I've got some paperwork to fill out for Mycroft, so I'll text you later.'

\---

Sherlock stared at the screen after sending the last message. He watched John's responses flash across the screen as the phone vibrated with each incoming message.

'You're actually doing paperwork?'  
'For Mycroft?'  
'Are you alright?'  
'Sherlock?'

They all went unanswered as Sherlock dug through his luggage.


	19. Just seeing if you're okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! After almost a year of nothing, here is a new chapter of this story. The number of chapters might change, as I've altered my outline quite a bit since returning to writing this. I'll be posting chapters 20 and 21 tonight as well.

Sherlock never found what he was looking for. He'd known it was a long shot; of course Mycroft had found a way to take it away from him.

Really, it wouldn't be that hard to get some more. It's never difficult for him to sniff it out.

But he was too tired. Too tired to go hunting for his drug of choice, too tired to even crawl into his bed. He laid himself down on the floor and forced himself to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

_Sherlock walked through the streets of London, unsure how he got there. He knew London, he was London, but he didn't recognise the street he traveled. People passed by him, looking straight forward like they couldn't even see him._

_He tried to stop a few of them. He stepped in front of a woman with a small dog in a big handbag, but she walked right through him._

_Like he was a ghost._

“ _You are a ghost, Sherlock.” John's voice came from behind him._

_Sherlock spun around as all the strangers faded away. There was John, confusion tightening his face._

“ _What?” Sherlock was more shocked by the sound of his own voice than the fact that he was suddenly naked._

“ _You're dead, Sherlock. I watched you. This has all been a dream. A limbo dream. But it's time to wake up now, they've decided where you'll go.”_

“ _Go?”_

_John chuckled. “Heaven or Hell, remember?”_

“ _I never believed in that.”_

“ _Me either. But I'm here to take you to Heaven.”_

“ _Me in Heaven, John? Even in the afterlife you have too much faith in me.” Sherlock wanted to smile, wanted to focus on the warmth emanating from John, but his heart filled with ice when a question struck him. “Why you? What are you doing here?”_

“ _I follow you everywhere.”_

“ _Oh, god.”_

“ _No, Sherlock, it's ok, really...”_

“ _John you... the only reason I did that was to keep you_ alive _, John!”_

“ _Shh, it's ok.” John stepped forward and hugged Sherlock._

_Angry at John and suddenly embarrassed by his own nudity, Sherlock tried to push John away. “No, stop!”_

“ _What's wrong?”_

“ _Everything! You shouldn't be dead. Neither of us should be dead.”_

“ _So then don't be. For me, Sherlock.”_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up startled. Once he realised where he was, though, his heart rate slowed down.

He took a few deep breaths and turned his head. He saw Dennison laying next to him, watching him.

“Why were you asleep on the floor?”

'Why were you watching me?'

Dennison shrugged and sat up. Sherlock sat up as well, scratching his head as Dennison crawled into his lap. “I'm bored, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tried to think of ways to entertain him. Nothing seemed to be quite enough, until he felt his phone go off in his pocket. It was a text from John.

'Hi. Just seeing if you're okay.'

He stared at the screen, thinking back to his dream. He looked to Dennison, signing, 'Want to take a trip to London?'


	20. See you soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: I'm posting multiple chapters at once! Please be sure to read the one before this if you haven't yet!

Dennison was packing before Sherlock had even looked into flights.

But Sherlock didn't say anything, because he felt the same way. Although it wasn't London he was really looking forward to seeing again.

'How soon can you get me to London?' As much as he loathed relying on his brother, Sherlock knew Mycroft was the best bet. A minute after he sent the text, he got a reply.

'Your flight details have been sent to your email. I'll have a car waiting for you at the airport.'

'You will not.'

'I'll have security posted to keep an eye on John, then.'

'Fine.'

'See you soon.'

Sherlock knew he didn't want Mycroft to pick him up at the airport. He wanted John. He just didn't know how to tell John he was coming back to London.

What if John didn't want him to visit anymore? Especially now that he might be a father.

He still hadn't responded to John's text inquiring about his well-being. In fact, he'd received two more.

'I'm getting worried...'  
'Sherlock Holmes. Answer me.'

He replied: 'Sorry. I fell asleep and then Dennison distracted me.'

'I wish you were here. I'd worry less.'

Sherlock smiled at the opportunity. 'My plane leaves tonight.'

There was a few minutes of nothing. Then, 'Where?'

'London, of course.'

'Why didn't you tell me sooner?!'

'I just decided to come.'

'What time are you getting in? I'll meet you.'

'Mycroft is sending a car.'

'Ha ha, very funny. What time, Sherlock.'

The back-and-forth lasted a few more minutes until Sherlock finally gave in and told John what time to meet him.

He and Dennison were packed just in time to make their flight.

 

* * *

  

John paced the flat, unsure what to do now.

Knowing Sherlock would be returning soon, the flat suddenly felt one hundred times emptier. The silence almost made it impossible to think.

He couldn't just sit and wait, he needed to _do_ something. Maybe get Sherlock and Dennison a present, he thought. He know it wasn't necessary, and would make Sherlock feel awkward as hell, but he needed to get out.

On his way out, he stopped to ask Mrs. Hudson if she needed anything.

“No, dear, I'm fine, thank you.” She noticed his impatience and invited him to sit down. “What's gotten into you?”

“Sherlock's coming home.”

“Oh! Should I bake something? I should bake something... Would you mind picking up a few things for me, since you're heading out anyway?”

“Not at all.”

Mrs. Hudson handed him a list of ingredients, which he stuck into his coat pocket. “You look happier than I've ever seen anyone.”

“I miss him.” John shrugged.

“Yes, well, no matter what he says about 'visiting', after seeing you smile like that, I don't think he'll be leaving again.”

“I don't think I'll let him. I'll be right back with your supplies.”


	21. Just the two of you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: I'm posting multiple chapters at once! Please be sure to read the two before this if you haven't yet! I posted three chapters instead of one longer one because I just felt it needed to be broken up more idk. I'm sorry it's been longer than a week since I said I'd update. Finals happened and I had to give up one of my jobs and I started my summer job and courses and it's been very hectic but! Here are three brand new chapters for your enjoyment. Happy reading :)

Dennison did not like the airplane.

He didn't mind crowded buildings, but a plane was different. Too many people in one small area, and none of them willing to talk to him.

“Sherlock, when do we land?” He bounced in his seat, looking all around.

“Shh.” It was a gentle shush, one form of vocal communication he could use. He didn't very often, because alone in their house he didn't care how loud Dennison was when he was playing.

“But the seat is hard.”

This, Sherlock could agree with. Mycroft had gotten him the soonest flight, regardless of lack of luxury. Not that he minded too much; at least his brother knew him well enough to know that John was more important to him than flying first-class.

'Soon,' he signed. 'Try to sleep.'

“I'm not tired.”

'Read one of the books in your backpack.'

“Which ones did you pack?”

'Some of the ones you haven't read to me yet.'

He pulled out three small books from the bag on his lap. “These are too hard for me.”

'You learn by trying. Read to me. I'll point as you go and you sound the words out, alright?'

“Sherlock, do you _really_ like it when I read to you?”

'Of course I do,' Sherlock signed with a frown.

“One of the other boys at the park told me parents lie like that so they don't hurt our feelings.”

'I wouldn't lie to you. I promised, remember? You don't have to read if you don't want to, but I like listening to you.'

“If you're sure.”

Sherlock put an arm around Dennison's shoulder and nodded, using his other hand to lead him through the book.

 

* * *

 

John arrived at the airport three hours early. Just in case.

Mrs. Hudson had baked all night and all morning. She was probably still at it.

Just like he'd paced around 221B, John walked aimlessly about the airport. He double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked the time and area for Sherlock's return. He thought about having a sign with their names on it, like in films, but decided it might be overboard.

He waited, wondering if maybe it was all a dream and Sherlock wasn't actually coming home any time soon.

But then he appeared, holding hands with a small boy he recognised as Dennison. He ran to meet them, unaware of the stares he got from passersby.

They came face to face, and Sherlock looked down at the boy.

Dennison smiled. “It's ok, I know not to walk off.” He let go of Sherlock's hand and stood, looking up at him and John.

John was the first to move, hugging Sherlock around his shoulders. He felt arms closing tight around his waist, curly hair tickling his neck.

They stayed like that for a long time. As long as Sherlock wasn't letting go, John wasn't. He felt Sherlock's arms squeeze a bit tighter before loosening completely, and he backed out of the embrace.

“It's good to see you.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Just the two of you?”

Dennison spoke up. “Dr. Parson decided to take a job somewhere else.”

“Oh... that's good.” He looked to Sherlock for an explanation, but Sherlock avoided his gaze. So he looked down to Dennison again. “It's good to finally meet you in person.”

“Yeah! Hi!” Dennison stuck his arms up in the air, asking to be picked up.

Sherlock nodded at John, who then lifted the boy into his arms.

“Shall we go home?”

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson had the door open to 221B before they were even near the building.

“Sherlock,” she waved with a wide smile. “Welcome back, dear.” She gave him a hug, which he returned. Then she saw John, still carrying the child in his arms. “Oh, you must be Dennison. Hello.”

“You're Mrs. Hudson!”

“I've got a nice meal cooked up for the three of you.”

“Thanks!” Dennison said, smiling brightly.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock, are you sure you don't want any more?” Mrs. Hudson asked as they finished their meal.

Sherlock noded, hands held tightly on his lap. He didn't make a lot of eye contact.

“He's tired,” Dennison said. “We flew all the way here and he didn't sleep _at all_.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head in disapproval, but said, “He was probably too excited to sleep.”

Sherlock shrugged.

John watched the way Sherlock's body seemed to tighten and become smaller with each passing minute. “Maybe you should go get some sleep. There will be plenty of time after you wake up to do whatever you want.”

Finally, Sherlock's shoulders loosened up as he nodded.

“Come on, you could both use some rest.”

“I'm not tired!” Dennison whined.

Sherlock looked over at him and stuck out his hand. Dennison sighed and took it, both of them following John upstairs after thanking Mrs. Hudson.

“Do I have to sleep alone?” Dennison asked.

Sherlock replied, 'Only if you want to.'

Dennison shook his head with a pout. John giggled as he watched them from the sideline.

“When will I get to see London?”

'As soon as we wake up. I promise.'

“Is John going to rest with us?”

Sherlock looked up to meet John's eyes.

“Should I?”

“I think it'd be fun,” Dennison announced with a bright smile.

John gave a nervous laugh, but couldn't refuse. “Well that settles it then. I'll get changed...” He left for his own bedroom as the other two headed toward Sherlock's.

 

* * *

 

John entered Sherlock's room to find Dennison already asleep, Sherlock running his fingers through the boy's hair.

There was really no need for him to sleep there if the one who wanted him there was already asleep, but John couldn't find any other reason not to stay. Especially when Sherlock looked up and gave him a tired smile.

As John climbed onto the bed on the other side of Dennison, he whispered, “I know I said this already, but it's good to see you again.”

Sherlock nodded.

“And he's an angel.”

Sherlock nodded again, taking his hand away from Dennison's head and settling down to sleep.

John watched him for a while. He wasn't really tired, but didn't want to leave. Once he was sure Sherlock was asleep, he allowed his own eyes to close.


	22. You're Awake And Here With Us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, a real chapter. Please consider taking a moment to skim through the rest of the story. In the past 24 hours I have made a lot of edits. Most of them are small, but I have slightly changed my characterization of Dr. Parson and his interactions with Sherlock. And do consider reading "Loud Hands" by Katzedecimal, whom by now I consider a friend. It is a short companion piece to this story and really will add to the experience of this chapter, absolutely worth your time. I would include a link but have forgotten how. Again, thank you for your support in my time away. Happy reading.

John again did not dream.  He was content here, now.

He was no stranger to comforting Sherlock to sleep, but a child might be different.

Although he knew he would have to learn, considering Mary was pregnant.

Sherlock had a harder time falling asleep.  He felt tired in his very bones but all he could think of was a conversation with Mycroft, many moons ago.

 

 

_After Mycroft had had his wounds tended to, after the doctors were tossed out and all that remained was Sherlock on a soft bed and Mycroft standing at his side, the silence was different now._

_Sherlock’s silence had been brought upon him but Mycroft’s had been intentional.  He may not have been good with emotions but of course he’d been affected by his brother’s death.  There were hints, clues that he may still be alive but Mycroft Holmes was not known to carry hope and so he willfully ignored the signs._

_All the same, he wasn’t surprised when Sherlock had broken in.  If he would come to anyone for help in his state, it would have been one of two people.  And when he’d looked down into Sherlock’s eyes he’d seen the scared little boy who used to come to his big brother in the middle of the night._

_“Sherlock,” he said softly.  “What have you gotten up to in the past two years?”_

_Sherlock’s eyes fluttered and his head rolled to the side where Mycroft stood.  He raised a hand slightly and pointed to something.  The bedside table, upon which sat a pad and pen._

_Mycroft slid it to him, letting him pick it up himself._

_‘Finishing things.’_

_“Hm. Why don’t you just sign? Certainly it would be easier, and don’t play dumb I know you remember.”_

_Sherlock was slow, but precise. ‘No need to worry, I’ll be gone before dinner time.’_

_“Don’t play the martyr Sherlock, it really doesn’t suit you.”_

_‘Give me some morphine.’_

_“I think not. Didn’t need a list this time, brother.  Everything was clearly spelled out for me when we tested a sample of your blood.”_

_‘I am in pain.’_

_“How unfortunate.”_

_Sherlock dropped his arms.  Truly, the pain wasn’t as bad now that the swelling was gone, all signs of infection treated._

_Mycroft sat himself next to him. “Why didn’t you simply ask for my help? You could have died.”_

_‘For all you knew, I was already dead. You didn’t even look for me.’_

_“I abstain from attachment, Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean that_ your _death didn’t cause me… heartache. I didn’t want to look.”_

_‘John.’_

_Mycroft sighed.  “Yes, Dr. Watson. I assume you’ll be going to him next.”_

_‘No. Just tell me how he is.’_

_“How should I know?”_

_‘Don’t play dumb.’_

_“Latest security check list’s him safely tucked away at Baker Street. Sherlock you are going to tell him.”_

_‘Not yet. Not finished yet.’_

_“If you go back out there, I will be by your side.  Not physically, of course, but I will always be watching.  I should have been watching.”_

_‘I don’t need your help.’_

_“And yet here you are. How about a deal?”_

_‘Boring.’_

_“Tough. You let my teams help you, and I don’t accidentally let anything slip to your John Watson.”_

_Sherlock sat up slightly, wincing, and glared at him._

_“He deserves to know.”_

_‘But he mustn’t.’_

_“Well, then.  Sherlock, tell me the truth. I understand your mind, I understand the thrill you get, but surely this is extreme, even for you.  Why go to all this trouble?”_

_‘You really don’t see it? A hundred passersby on the street and a million strangers on the internet could figure it out before you?’_

_“I hate it when you’re vague.”_

_‘John Watson is worth everything to me.’_

_Mycroft closed his eyes.  “Really, Sherlock?” He opened them in time to see his reply._

_‘I am not ashamed to tell you I love him.’_

_“I see.”_

_‘Keep him safe.’_

_“I have done so, as per your last requests you so kindly left on my desk.  Get some sleep, Sherlock.  You will need time to recover, and then we’ll see what we can do about your little… quest.”_

_***_

In his dreams, though, it was John he came to in the dead of night.  Neck bleeding out, held together only by a quickly dampening bandana.  His feet were pricked by thorns from running for miles and miles until he finally crashed into 221B.

John would silently stitch up the gaping hole in his throat with a long, white hot needle and every time he finished, the threads came loose, forcing John to sew him up again and again.

John’s hands would be covered in dark blood, followed soon by his clothes and then pools would form on the floor. Hot, red liquid starting to flood the room.

Logically it was more blood than a human could lose at once and survive but he was alive staring at John as he worked tirelessly to fix him.  With each passing moment Sherlock wondered when it would finally be over, when the flood would stop and he’d run out of breath and not have to live anymore.

And just as he would feel himself growing cold, slipping away from the touch of John’s careful fingers, he’d wake with a gasp

John and Dennison sat up at the sudden shift of weight in the bed. Sherlock was hunched forward toward the foot of the bed, chest heaving, eyes pinched shut.

“Sherlock?” John asked, moving toward him.

Dennison watched with wide eyes as John pulled him close and tried to bring him out of wherever his head had taken him.  “Sherlock,” he said again, “Come on, come back to us.”

Soon his breathing slowed and his eyes opened.  The hot sweat on his face cooled to almost freezing and he began to shiver.

“Dennison, could you bring a glass of water from the tap?  Warm, please?”

Dennison nodded and ran out of the room.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock focused his strength on gripping one of John’s arms to pull himself so he was sitting upright.  He stared at him, eyes still wide with fear.

“I’m right here, and you’re safe at home on Baker Street, Sherlock.  Dennison is fetching you some water.  We’re in your bed and it’s raining outside.”

He looked around, taking in the environment.  He saw his dresser, saw the soft drizzle hitting the window.  He nodded.

Dennison returned with a glass full almost to the rim with water. He handed it to John, who put it to Sherlock’s lips.

“Just take a small sip, Sherlock.”

He let John pour some of the water into his mouth.  When had it become so dry?

“There you go.”

“Are you okay, Sherlock?” Dennison asked, eyes damp.

Sherlock reached out an arm and drew him into an awkwardly angled hug, holding him close to his chest.

“He’ll be fine,” John answered.  “A bit of a nightmare, I assume?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Everything is fine, now.  You’re awake and here with us. We’re all fine.”


	23. Look At Us, Crawling In The Mud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you jump right into this chapter, I wanted to let you all know that I have a couple of original projects in the works as I prepare to apply to graduate school. If any of you would be interested in reviewing these projects as they progress, please email me (my email address can be found on my profile page). I can't make it to any physical workshop meetups in my condition, but I would love to have feedback from the community who has supported me through my ups and downs. The program to which I am applying is low-residency, allowing me to do 95% of my coursework from home. I need my portfolio to be outstanding if I want to get in. I'd be happy to return the favor to fellow aspiring writers!

Sherlock sat at the table in the kitchen. He kept his head down while he regulated his breathing, focusing entirely on the breath ebbing through his lungs. The room disappeared around him, followed by the flat. Within minutes all of London was long gone and then the rest of the world, leaving Sherlock at the center of the Universe.

Behind his closed eyes it was dark and starless, and he floated in silence until he heard a faint voice calling out from a Universe near by.

“Sherlock.”

A flash of  light appeared as his eyes threatened to open.

“Sherlock, I’m making a light snack for Denni. Will you try to eat something?”

He brought his head up and opened his eyes to look at John.

“There you are,” John said with a smile so incandescent Sherlock felt himself smile back, bringing him fully back to Earth, to London. Back to John.

 

 

_He is underground. His arms are covered in cuts up to his elbows from digging through brush and clay with bare hands. He bleeds into the soil and his nose is filled with the scent of blood and dirt and he feels the rolling of his stomach as he prepares to vomit._

_The tunnel he’s dug for himself is only wide enough for one person but his companion is crawling behind him. Skin clean and clothing unsoiled, John follows behind, talking so loudly that Sherlock worries he will be caught._

_“Look at us, crawling in the mud. How do I let you get me into these messes?”_

_Sherlock whispers his reply. “You’re the one who refuses to leave me alone.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, would you just go on? I’m getting cramped.”_

_He shushes John, looking around frantically, even though he can hardly see anything by the light of the dim light he wears on his wrist.  “It’s not safe to go anywhere, forward or back. This is where we stay for the night. Maybe a few nights.”_

_John sighs loud enough to cause an earthquake. Suddenly the size of the tunnel expands to the size of a small room.  Sherlock can’t reach out any further in front of him, stopped by an invisible forcefield. But the tunnel transforms right in front of him into his brightly lit bedroom of 221B. He sits on his floor, feels the soft rug beneath him.  John comes to his side and sits with him._

_“At least eat something.” He pulls some biscuits out of his coat pocket. “Mrs. Hudson sent these with me today. Here.” He pushes one toward Sherlock._

_“It’s not even real, you’re not real. Leave me alone.” Sherlock curls in on himself tries to feel the dirt against his fingers, but all he feels is John’s hand in his.  John smiles at him._

_“If I weren’t real, could you feel this?”_

_“It’s a trick, I know it’s just a trick of the mind, John. I’m sorry, but you must go.”_

_Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to focus on the physical, the reality. But John is still beside him, so instead he focuses on the internal. He goes deep inside himself, until everything including the darkness ceases to exist and even he is lost._

 

 

 

“So. You going to have something, then?”

Sherlock shook his head but stood with a hurried motion and locked his arms around John.

“Oh,” John said as Sherlock wrapped him up. He hugged him back though, with an almost childish giggle. “Feeling better then?”

He felt Sherlock nod against the top of his head.

Sherlock clings to him, feeling the solid physical being pressing against him.

“Hey!” Dennison said as he walked in.

John and Sherlock turned their heads to look at him.

He pouted at them. “I want a hug too,” he said, crossing his arms.

Sherlock released John and scooped up the child, spinning him around. He leaned himself against the counter, so the resulting dizzy spell wouldn’t knock him down.

Dennison laughed as Sherlock gave him a small kiss on his cheek.

“Sherlock when are we going out?”

Sherlock looked over to John.

John thought for a moment. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea right now. You just had a terrible nightmare and…"

Sherlock pouted now.

Crossing his arms John looked seriously at them both. “You must promise to behave.”

“I always behave,” Dennison said.

“I was talking to Sherlock.”  Sherlock glared at him, and John laughed. “Get your coats. We’ll get a snack while we’re out.”

 

 

 

Clutching a small sandwich in his hands, Dennison walked between Sherlock and John, staring wide-eyed at everything he passed.

They came up on a park with a few other children and Dennison pointed. “Look! Can I go? Can I go play?”

Sherlock nodded at John, who then answered, “But make sure to stay where we can see you, okay? Don’t go anywhere else without coming to get us, first.”

“Okay!”

He took off running toward the park while John and Sherlock followed. They took a seat on a bench not far off from where a handful of the kids gathered around a tree they were trying to climb. Dennison went up to them and easily inserted himself into the group.

Someone approached them from the side. “Hello.”

Sherlock was intently keeping watch of his cousin, but John turned in the direction of the voice.

“Oh, hi Donovan.” He noticed a young girl holding her hand. “Hi, there.”

She looked up at Sally who nodded. She smiled. “Hi, I’m Arielle. Who are you?"

“I’m John.”

Sally released her hand. “Arielle, why don’t you go play for a bit?”

Arielle wasted no time in joining the others.

“I didn’t know he was back again.”

“He just got in earlier today.”

They were both silent for a moment.

Sherlock finally turned toward Sally and signed, ‘Niece?’

“Correct, as usual. My niece,” she said for John’s benefit, “comes to see me a lot. My sister is a single mum, you know, so she likes a break now and then. You got one out there, or…?”

“Sherlock’s cousin. The one… very skilled at climbing trees, apparently.”

Dennison hung from a branch by one hand while the other children cheered him on.

Sally chuckled.

“Well, I, er… just wanted to say that I’m glad to see you again, Sherlock. Really.  And we could always use your help, you know. I’d be happy to translate for you. Maybe I could even teach Dr. Watson some sign language.”

Before either of them could respond, Dennison and Arielle ran up to them.

“Sherlock, John, look! I’ve made a friend already!”

“Hi again.” Arielle said.

“We’d best get going, actually,” Sally said.  “Maybe next time you visit you two can play together again, hm?”

“Okay.”

“See you boys around,” Sally said as they walked away.

John watched them go for a moment. “Sherlock, are we friends with Donovan now?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Oh, right,” John said. “I wanted to show you something. I know she offered to teach me, but…”

He held his hands up and moved them in a shaky but recognizable motion.

‘I’ve been learning.’

Sherlock’s mouth opened slightly in a soundless gasp.

“I wanted to surprise you, but I’m not as fast a learner as I had hoped.”

Dennison clapped his hands together. “John you can sign!”

“Not very well, yet, but if you two help me I’m sure I’ll get it. Mary has been teaching me but it just doesn’t seem to be taking.”

Sherlock signed back to him, slowly, letting him take in the movements.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t get that,” John said, slightly embarrassed.

“Do you want me to tell him?” Dennison asked. When Sherlock approved he said, “He says you’re fantastic, John.”

John felt himself start to blush. “I can only say a few things.”

It started to rain lightly and Dennison threw his arms into the air. “Why is it always raining?”

“We should get home, then. Don’t need either of you catching cold.”

 “You’ll have to catch me!”  Dennison ran to the center of the park where he began going in circles while the other parents collected their children and headed in all directions. “Come on! Catch me!”

“Must be a family trait,” John said.

Sherlock looked at him.

“The dramatics.”

If Sherlock could have laughed, he would have.

“Come on, let’s go get him.”

They walked toward him as he flopped himself down in the mud.

“You’ll ruin your clothes,” John warned.

Dennison rolled over and dug his hands down into the ground. “Come on, get in the mud, it feels nice.”

Sherlock looked deep in thought.

“Don’t even think about it,” John said to Sherlock.

Quickly Sherlock stepped out of John’s reach and joined the boy down in the mud. Dennison climbed on top of him and smeared a clump onto Sherlock’s face.

John groaned as Sherlock responded by scooping some into his hands and piling it on top of Dennison’s head.

They both stilled for a second, then turned to look at John.

“No, no way.”

They both stood and rushed toward him.  He tried to back away but they reached him first, each grabbing a wrist and pulling him down.

Before he could protest they both attacked him, spreading mud through his hair and on his clothes.

Sherlock grasped John’s coat, feeling the squish of the mud against the fabric.

“I can’t believe you did that,” John said, panting as the rain hit his face.

Dennison laughed loudly and Sherlock beamed at him.

John sat up and took in the sight of them all, soaking wet and covered in mud. “How are we going to explain ourselves to Mrs. Hudson.”


End file.
